


A Change of Heart

by SosoHolmesWatson



Series: The Pains of Growing [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson's Childhood, Love Confessions, M/M, Mollstrade, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Alternating, Parentlock, Past Abuse, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Slow Burn, Suicidal Sherlock, Virgin!Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-09-24 02:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 65,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SosoHolmesWatson/pseuds/SosoHolmesWatson
Summary: After all they have been through, after all the heartbreak and desolation, John and Sherlock want to make their way back to each other, still convinced that friendship is all that can exist between them. Will there be a change of heart?





	1. John's Chapter: The First Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction and literary work in Englisch (second language), so please tell me if things sound off or anything! :)  
> Concrit is always welcomed!
> 
> Every chapter of this work features a song/quote/whatever which inspired me or captures the scenes' essence or atmosphere. I'll post YouTube links for the individual songs. Alternatively, you can listen to all the songs in this Spotify playlist: [A Change of Heart](https://open.spotify.com/user/1126675797/playlist/1RkXs3NieFobaxcea1kj8V?si=0j9xG3JaT22IPOnSVKCdog)
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: [anchored-in-high-tide](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anchored-in-high-tide)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John woke all of a sudden with his heart pounding heavily and an unsettling sense of danger tingling in his chest. His foggy brain scanned the room for possible attackers. He wasn’t sure what had disrupted his unconsciousness and slowly rubbed his face in confusion. Then, he heard it again: An agitated cry, faintly evocative of his own name, coming from Sherlock’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter:  
> [OneRepublic, Say (All I need)](https://youtu.be/GRSZpV6WIuU)

# John’s Chapter: The First Night

 

_Well, all I need is the air I breathe  
And a place to rest my head._

OneRepublic, Say (All I Need)

 

John could not work a second longer. His eyelids weighed a pound each and he felt his mind drift off to his comfortable bed every time he looked at his watch. _22:35_. The clinic was a steady job and he needed the money but— _good God_ —he hated it. Between solving cases with Sherlock, taking care of Rosie, and working here he had barely time to eat or shower, let alone sleep for a decent amount of time. He sighed in exhaustion as he opened the last of the patients’ files he had to update and rubbed his tired eyes. When John finally locked the door to the clinic behind him, it was almost 11 pm. He sent a quick text to Sherlock:

John put his phone back in his pocket and grinned at the fact that Sherlock had stopped signing his texts to him after John had assured him that his number was saved in his phone and he knew that it was him anyway. The chilly November wind brushing his cheeks revived him a little as he directed his steps towards Baker Street but not as much as the icy raindrops that began to pat down on his head and shoulders a mere five minutes later. John unsuccessfully tried to hail a cab before his jacket was completely soaked. He had always envied Sherlock for the way cabs seemed to stop the second he raised his hand, and mumbled curses in his scarf as the rain determinedly crept into his collar. By the time he reached 221B, John was dripping wet and shivering from the cold. Climbing the stairs up to the flat formed an almost insurmountable obstacle in his current state of utter fatigue. He opened the door to the empty sitting room.

“Hey,” John said softly into the dimly lit space while peeling out of his jacket. Since no one answered he went upstairs where he found Sherlock in one of his silky dressing gowns, sitting by Rosie’s crib. He smiled at the sight. Sherlock had insisted on buying all essential baby gear which he had put in John’s old room directly after they had made 221B habitable again so John could stop by with Rosie anytime he wanted. Over the past few weeks, Sherlock had watched Rosie even more often than Mrs. Hudson or Molly had. At first, John was sure he tried to somehow make up for everything that had happened between them since Mary’s death, but now he felt that his friend simply thrived in sight of this new responsibility. Whenever John had a long day at the clinic, Sherlock would volunteer his time and apparently never let little Rosie out of his sight, not even now when she was sound asleep.

Sherlock raised his gaze and gestured at John to be extra quiet before he followed him out of the room again. “She was pretty fussy all evening. Took me ages to make her fall asleep,” he whispered after carefully closing the bedroom door behind him. John smiled at him apologetically and descended back into the sitting room. He could feel Sherlock’s deducing stare on his wet hair and rain-drenched clothes as he entered the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

“Sorry again that it’s gotten so late. Work was hell today,” said John and made two cups of tea with such experienced movements that he didn’t have to pay any attention to it.

“It’s not like you made me stay up later than I would be anyway,” Sherlock replied. “But you will most definitely have a considerably longer night if you try to move Rosie from her crib now and wake her up.”

“I don’t know if I can take another sleepless night,” sighed John, “I almost fell asleep today auscultating a patient.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his burning eyes before handing Sherlock his cup.

“You don’t have to take her home. You can stay if you want to. Sleep on the couch or—,” Sherlock trailed off with a vague gesture and quickly nipped at his tea.

John knew that refusal was pointless because it would entail a string of arguments and deductions from Sherlock concerning his apparent sleep deprivation. And anyway, he was way too tired to get a cab in the pouring rain with a grumpy baby. So, he just nodded and, too, took a sip to avoid having to make any further comments. The soothing liquid sank down his throat and slowly dispersed the cold in his body.

For a few moments, the two men just stood there, drinking their tea; a situation that felt oddly familiar and strange at the same time. A trace of sorrow wandered over John’s face as he realized how much he actually missed this place. He dropped by Baker Street all the time but it just wasn’t the same. These little intimate moments just didn’t occur when he only came over to work cases or to drop off Rosie. He missed having breakfast together, reading the paper while Sherlock typed up an obscure entry for his website about the composition of different types of ink, _hell_ , he sometimes even missed his damn experiments. Sharing a flat with Sherlock was always challenging, sometimes nerve-racking, but never quiet, never boring. Now, when Rosie had gone to sleep, John often found his own home to be unbearably… peaceful. _Fuck, I already begin to sound like that madman._

Sherlock broke the silence by setting down his cup and saying: “Don’t you want to take your clothes off?”

John was very thankful that his mouth wasn’t full of tea at this moment because otherwise he most definitely would have spit or snorted it out. Instead, he just gave his former flatmate a staggered look and asked a little louder than intended: “ _What_?”

“Your clothes?” Sherlock repeated, with a not very subtle air of annoyance because John was not following him. “They’re wet and cold. Isn’t that supposed to be bad for your health, _Doctor_?”

John’s alarm melted into a relieved chuckle but, at the sight of Sherlock’s oblivious face, he swallowed it quickly to avoid any further questions about _what was so funny_. “Yes, right, but I’ve got nothing else.”

“You can borrow a shirt and some pyjamas from me,” replied Sherlock coolly and disappeared into his bedroom before John could object. He returned minutes later with fresh sheets, one of his own pillows, a blanket, and some clothes in his arms. In the meantime, John had already rid himself of his damp button-down shirt and taken the smorgasbord of loose papers and files off the couch. Without further ado, Sherlock set down his stack and wished John a good night before retreating to his room. John’s reply got lost in the shutting of his friend’s bedroom door. He prepared his provisional bedstead, stripped down to his pants and hung his clothes over his armchair to dry. Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms were several inches too long for him and the t-shirt he had given him stretched tightly over his broader chest. The sofa wasn’t ideal for restorative sleep either and John already knew that his shoulders and back would resentfully remind him of his poor choices the next day. Nonetheless, the sheets and clothes gave off Sherlock’s distinctive, soothing fragrance and he almost immediately drifted off into a dreamless slumber with an exhausted smile on his lips.

 

___________________________________

 

After what had only felt like seconds, John woke all of a sudden with his heart pounding heavily and an unsettling sense of danger tingling in his chest. His foggy brain scanned the room for possible attackers. This kind of nightly disturbances had haunted him since he had returned from Afghanistan and only worsened over the past few years after Sherlock’s suicide. The only period in which he had not regularly been overwhelmed by terrifying nightmares had been here at Baker Street. But since then, John thought, he had at least always known what brutal images had chased off his sleep because they had usually burned themselves into his retinas and tormented him even with open eyes.

Now, he wasn’t sure what had disrupted his unconsciousness and slowly rubbed his face in confusion. Then, he heard it again: An agitated cry, faintly evocative of his own name, coming from Sherlock’s room. In the twinkling of an eye, John was wide awake, sprang from the sofa and sprinted down the hall to the younger man, almost stumbling over his oversized trousers. The door loudly rebounded on the wall behind it as John pushed it open and turned on the lights. He all but expected a dark hooded figure to cower over the bed strangling Sherlock.

Instead, the consulting detective was solely struggling with his sheets which had slipped down to his waist. He was obviously still fast asleep but facing unspeakable horrors in his dreams. Dark stains of sweat bloomed on his shirt and his breathing was erratic and accelerated as he lashed out furiously. A desperate sound like a howl from a hurt wild animal rose from his mouth: “ _Joooohn, no, John, Jooooohn!_ ”

The pure panic and anguish evident in Sherlock’s voice made John’s heart skip a beat. His adrenaline ran high; He followed his first instinct and threw himself on Sherlock with all of his body weight, pinning his wildly kicking limbs to the bed before he could seriously hurt himself. Sherlock still cried John’s name in agony and tried to free his wrists from his tight grip.

“Sherlock, hey, Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up, for God’s sake, _wake up_!” John yelled and tried to retain the jolting body beneath him enough to hold Sherlock’s head steady. The other man was drowning in his nightmares, in too deep to surface on his own, still bending and arching in his grasp, his face distorted in fear. John let go of one of Sherlock’s arms and slapped his friend’s pale cheek with full force. Instantaneously, Sherlock’s eyes sprang open wide but their gaze was blurred and unfocused, not perceiving his surroundings. Tears bedewed each light blue iris and the fright was still carved into his marble-like features.

“It’s alright, you’re safe, everything’s ok,” John hushed until the tension began to drain from Sherlock’s body and his breathing steadied. Slowly, as if his friend would suddenly start to struggle again, John loosened his grip and slid off of him. “It’s alright, no one’s gonna harm you, I’m here now,” he kept quietening Sherlock whose whole body was trembling now. As his watery eyes finally met John’s, they were full of shame and embarrassment. This was one of the moments Sherlock looked so incredibly young and vulnerable, like a scared child, and John’s insides screamed with the overwhelming feeling of protectiveness. He had sworn himself that he would never allow Sherlock to experience such horror again, after all they had been through, after all he had put him through. _Not on my watch_.

Seeing Sherlock out of control was always a worrying sight but tonight John felt a strange sense of guilt because Sherlock had screamed _his name_. He had often noticed that the consulting detective tended to use it as a substitute for “ _Help_!” but this time it had sounded different. There had been such an overpowering terror and hurt in Sherlock’s voice that John’s stomach clenched at recalling it. He watched the almost fragile limbs of his friend quiver under his twisted sheets as he repeated soothing phrases over and over again. The doctor knew that the drop of adrenaline always came with a shattering cold and decided to take action. As always when someone needed his care, John felt himself slip into crisis mode and a reassuring calmness and practicality took over his brain.

“Can you get up?” he asked and assisted his friend with gentle but determined hands as the other slowly nodded. Sherlock was still half paralyzed and remained seated on the bed as John bustled about to get him fresh pyjamas and sheets. “Put that on,” he commanded calmly and handed the detective some clothes but Sherlock was so numbed that he didn’t move. Gingerly, John brought him to his feet and positioned him on the wooden foot of the bed so he could change the sheets. Sherlock obviously wasn’t up to the task. In the quietness of the scene, John could now here faint wailing come from upstairs. Another child that needed comforting. He shortly pressed his eyes shut to gather himself and then addressed Sherlock once again: “Do you think you can change alone or do you need my help?”

“Of course, I can change by myself, I am not a child,” came Sherlock’s indignant reply, his voice still carrying the weight of the nightmare, but John took it as a good sign that he could already snap at him again. And, honestly, he was relieved that he didn’t have to undress Sherlock. This situation was already awkward enough without the dizzying mix of emotion such an act would probably entail.

He headed upstairs to find Rosie crying in her crib, lifted her to his chest and began to rock her gently in his arms until she finally calmed down. He quickly glanced at his watch and suppressed a sigh as to not wake his daughter up again. It was almost three in the morning. The next day promised to be hellish.

When he returned to Sherlock’s room the younger man lay in bed again, still awake and waiting for him. “I’m sorry I woke her up,” he apologized sheepishly and John couldn’t help to think what a weird night this was indeed.

“She always finds a reason,” he said, sat down on the bedside, and looked his friend over carefully. “You alright now?”

“Of course.”

“I’m just asking ‘cause—,” John began but Sherlock interrupted him.

“I know, John. But it’s fine. Usually, I’m just not woken up quite this forcefully.”

“Usually?” enquired John and something dawned on him. “How often does this happen?”

“Not often.”

“How. Often. Sherlock,” John stressed every word, his voice now bearing the authority of his former rang as captain. This normally worked only on ordinary people but Sherlock’s defences wore thin tonight.

“Every night, as Mrs. Hudson so kindly reminds me on a regular basis,” Sherlock confessed with forced nonchalance and added in a high voice, parodying his landlady: “’You can’t wake me up like this, Sherlock. I need my sleep. I’ll have to wear my noise cancelling headphones every night now.’” He rolled his eyes as John looked at him in obvious dismay.

“Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t _you_ tell me?” God, sometimes this man-child cost him his last nerve.

“I asked her not to. I didn’t want you to feather-bed me and, guess what, I still don’t.”

“Well, I hate to inform you but that is no longer your decision. Now, make some room.” John shoved Sherlock’s shoulder and headed for the door. He had made up his mind.

“What?” asked Sherlock in the irritated tone that always shone through when the conversation took a different turn than anticipated.

“You heard me,” John replied, already halfway down the hall. He grabbed his pillow and blanket from the sofa. Back in Sherlock’s room, he threw them on one side of the bed and turned the lights off, before climbing in, too.

“Scoot! Doctor’s orders.”

He could feel Sherlock’s bewildered stare on him in the darkness as he lay down beside him.

“John, what—,” he began his protest but this time John didn’t let him finish.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, that bloody sofa is killing me and I need to keep an eye on you so you don’t wake up Rosie again. Now, _please_ make some room. I wanna sleep.”

“How do you plan on keeping an eye on me if they’re both closed?” chuntered Sherlock but rolled to the other side of the bed to give John some space.

“Just shut up, you arse,” John chuckled quietly and rested his head on the comfy pillow. If Sherlock replied, he didn’t hear it anymore. The exhaustion had already overcome him.

 

___________________________________

 

As John woke again, the bedroom was ablaze with sunlight. He squinted until his eyes had attuned to the brightness, then raised his wrist to look at his watch. A mumbled curse escaped his lips as he realized that he had already slept through two alarms. That usually only happened when he was drunk. He must’ve been really knocked out last night. Slowly, the curious and partly discomforting events of last night filled his conscience. He turned his head and found Sherlock still sleeping beside him, a halo of dark curls spread across his pillow, chest heaving in calm steadiness. Even in this relaxed state, he looked decidedly worn down. Circles of dark purple shone through the pale skin under his eyes and his cheeks were even hollower than usual. Guilt stung in John’s chest at the realization that he hadn’t perceived the obvious traces of exhaustion on his friend. In light of last night’s revelation, it seemed negligent that he had just blamed any signs of fatigue or discomfort on The Work.

Carefully, John slid out from under his covers and tiptoed out of the room, determined to let his friend sleep as long as possible. He climbed the stairs and peeped into Rosie’s room, grateful to see that she was still slumbering as well.

Back in the sitting room, he collapsed on the couch and tried to gather his thoughts. Sherlock’s apparently regular nightmares had disturbed him with their intensity and violence. Something needed to be done. But what? Sherlock, the obstinate bastard he was, would certainly refuse to do any kind of therapy. Before John could engross the thought about a future course of action, his stomach growled demandingly. _First, breakfast._

John had just turned on the kettle and taken some eggs out of the fridge as Sherlock entered the kitchen. John turned his back to him and began to prepare breakfast. After what had happened last night, he thought it best to let Sherlock set the pace of this conversation.


	2. Sherlock's Chapter: The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, his eyes closed in concentration, contemplating his further course of action. John would certainly want to talk about all of this eventually and he needed to be prepared. “Gather data and derive the logical solution,” said a voice in his head that annoyingly resembled Mycroft’s. Sherlock shook his head to get rid of it, yet, followed the instruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :)  
> The second chapter is done. The next two are already kinda mapped out in my head but will definitely take some time to write since its Christmas and all that. Hope, you guys will continue reading and commenting. If there are any issues (tags to add, language etc) please let me know :)
> 
> This chapter was inspired by:  
> [Dido, Here with Me](https://youtu.be/d_u_iEjoH3k)  
> For those of you who recognize the song from the OST of Love, Actually: There is a chapter coming up featuring that Christmas favourite of mine :)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: The Proposition

_I am what I am._  
_I’ll do what I want._  
_But I can’t hide._  
  
_I won’t go,_  
_I won’t sleep,_  
_I can’t breathe,_  
_Until you’re resting here with me._

Dido, Here with me.

 

Sherlock sat down and let the morning replay again. His mind still felt clouded by all the unexpected emotions his nightly encounter with John and the subsequent slumber party in his bedroom had stirred in him. He was utterly embarrassed that John had seen him in a position of such weakness but, then again, it wasn’t the first time. If he couldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable in front of John by now their relationship was probably less strong than he had thought. Besides, John hadn’t judged him. John never judged him. He was admittedly quite peeved at him for keeping his nightmares a secret from him but that was it. Ever the good doctor, he had simply taken care of Sherlock, even if that meant to share a bed with his former flatmate.

Initially, Sherlock had been determined to stay up all night in order to avoid the nightmares. According to Mrs. Hudson’s insistent assertions, his screams never failed to reach her flat, so, they would most certainly wake John and Rosie sleeping in closer proximity. He had retreated to his room to give John some peace and quiet, lain on his bed and wandered around in his mind palace to keep himself occupied for a few hours. His plan hadn’t quite worked as anticipated. Sherlock scolded himself for his lack of self-control. His transport had betrayed him once more and fallen asleep without his permission. And now John knew.

The dreams usually followed a simple structure: Sherlock regained consciousness in a dark and oddly featureless room, chained to the back wall. Mere feet away from him, yet too far to touch, lay John, chained up as well. He gave Sherlock a frightened look before a dark figure entered the room and approached John. Then, the worst part began. Sherlock had to sit there on the floor while John was being methodically tortured before his eyes. Sometimes it was Moriarty, sometimes Mary, sometimes the latest murderer they had caught together. Completely immobilized, Sherlock had to watch his friend bleed and suffer. And it was _his fault_. They only hurt John to hurt Sherlock. He was his breaking point, his weak spot, and Sherlock was unable to protect him. He could only tear at his chains and scream John’s name as his friend endured his torment in stoic braveness, sometimes for hours, until a merciful force finally let Sherlock wake up, shaking and covered in cold sweat.

But last night, John had dragged him out of the torture chamber in his conscience and back into existence, his blue eyes above Sherlock two fixed stars guiding him home. A shiver dripped down his spine at the recollection of the doctor’s tender fingers on his skin, calming him, reviving him. John had saved him again. It was always John Watson; he kept him right.

When Sherlock had woken in the morning and found the bed beside him empty, he had panicked a little. His bad dreams were usually so lifelike and convincing that he had a tough time telling them apart from reality. Had he simply fantasized about John coming to his rescue? No, he definitely wore different pyjamas than yesterday and his second pillow had been used by someone else. But, then, where was John? Had he slipped out of bed as soon as he could in order to avoid Sherlock? Had Sherlock done or said something embarrassing in his sleep and chased him away? How had their relationship altered in the course of one night? Data, he needed data.

Entering the kitchen, he had found John preparing breakfast. The sight of his friend still wearing his pyjamas had made Sherlock’s stomach tingle in unfamiliar excitement. John was here. For a few minutes, he had just indulged in the sweet sense of relief that John hadn’t left him, while the other man had fried some eggs. They had eaten in silence and out of thankfulness that John didn’t broach the subject of last night’s events just yet Sherlock had even finished his whole portion without whinging. Just as John had taken their dishes back to the sink, Rosie had made her need for breakfast heard from upstairs. After that, the rest of the morning had been a hurried mess of baby bottles and changed nappies and dried clothes being put back on. Before Sherlock knew, John and Rosie had left Baker Street.

Now, he was sitting on his armchair, his eyes closed in concentration, contemplating his further course of action. John would certainly want to talk about all of this eventually and he needed to be prepared. “Gather data and derive the logical solution,” said a voice in his head that annoyingly resembled Mycroft’s. Sherlock shook his head to get rid of it, yet, followed the instruction.

In his mind, he replayed every piece of evidence from this morning and last night, every deduction he had made about John, every single detail of their interaction; Combined with his prior observations about his friend as well as the mosaic of his own emotion (that was the hardest one to grasp), there was only one conclusion allowing for all the facts.

He grabbed his phone from the desk. At least, he could spare himself some of the inevitable humiliation by not having to do this face to face.

 

Sherlock’s stomach clenched in nervous anticipation as he waited for John’s reply. If there only were another solution. But now that he had eliminated the impossible, what remained had to be the right answer. If he didn’t want their friendship to deteriorate, he had to take action. What felt like hours later, his phone finally beeped.

The little smiley face John often added to his texts had always seemed completely preposterous and unnecessary to Sherlock, and he told John so whenever the opportunity arose. Yet, a message which evoked the image of a smiling, well-meaning John on the other side of this conversation now soothed his buzzing nerves and encouraged him to take the leap. Sherlock’s slender fingers flew over his touch screen, rapidly typing a lengthy paragraph, pouring all of the evidence he had collected into it. This had to be compelling. A significant portion of his future happiness depended on it.

Sherlock took a deep breath, his thumb lingering over the “send”-button for several seconds before he mustered the courage to hit it.

 

 

As soon as his message appeared in the blue bubble, Sherlock could not bear to look at the screen any longer. He locked the phone and placed it back on the desk, facing down. For a few minutes, he just sat in his armchair, nervously jiggling his feet and fidgeting with the waistband of his dressing gown, but the jittery energy building in his mind finally made him get up and roam the flat, in desperate need of some distraction. Eventually, he slumped down again at the kitchen table and bent over his microscope to examine some samples of different nail polishes he had collected but nothing could grab his attention for more than a few minutes. Why didn’t John reply?

His mind was in high gear, acting out every single one of John’s possible reactions to his proposition. With every passing second, Sherlock felt more stupid to have sent the text at all. Why, God, _why_ had he risked everything he currently had with John? Surely, he could somehow have talked himself out of this situation. After all, he was Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. But there was simply no scenario he could think of that could have diffused the situation. Well, John would probably have figured out an easy and low-risk way to handle things like _ordinary_ people, if he simply could’ve asked him. It once again dawned on Sherlock what great an advantage it was to have John, the embodiment of common sense, by his side. But what use was it if the doctor himself was the problem he was facing?

Half an hour passed and his phone still lay there in offensive silence. Sherlock began to spin out of control. This was almost as excruciating as his nightly visits in the torture chamber. His mind was racing, speeding, spiraling towards lethal velocity until his head would ultimately burn up from its own friction. He needed something to calm him down. Where was his emergency stash?! Mrs. Hudson and John regularly checked the flat and removed anything even remotely resembling drugs or cigarettes they could get their hands on. They were apparently pretty thorough, Sherlock thought, as he rummaged through all his usual hiding spots without finding anything. The next shop that would sell him some was a twenty-minute cab ride away. Why did he have to bribe them all?! _Stupid_. Maybe he could blackmail Lestrade to bring him some of his cigarettes. There were at least seven compromising deductions Sherlock could come up with off the top of his head that would probably do the trick. Or he could send someone from his homeless network. However, if Mrs. Hudson, Molly or John got wind of it he would lose his Rosie-privileges completely. Giving up smoking (and, of course, drugs) again had been one of John’s adamant rules for being around his daughter. God _damn_.

If he only had a case he could work on. He picked up his laptop from the desk and searched through his inbox. Over twenty new messages from potential clients seeking his help and advice popped up. Sherlock skimmed them quickly; simple and rudely obvious cases of adultery, a few burglaries, a missing person or two. Boring, boring, _BORING_. He grabbed his empty teacup from the side table and hurled it across the room at the opposite wall where it burst into a myriad of porcelain shivers. The sight of the ricocheting fragments had something peculiarly relaxing and gracefully destructive about it. Sherlock’s eyes gleamed at the sight of this outlet for his boiling thoughts. So, he rushed into the kitchen, threw all cupboards open, and seized as much of the tableware as he could carry.

As the twelfth piece shattered, Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson’s distinctive steps coming up the stairs. Her head poked through the sitting room door but shrank right back as Sherlock broke another plate by flinging it against the wall. “Sherlock? What is going on?”

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson, I’m busy,” snarled Sherlock, rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed some more china. Mrs. Hudson apparently jumped at the chance his short break offered and entered the sitting room. She beheld the pile of broken dishes, crushed into shards of varying sizes that had rained on the sofa, the coffee table, the floor, and let out one of her enervated sighs: “Sherlock, the mess you’ve made. Oh no, even the good cups!”

Sherlock glared at her and continued his endeavours to demolish the content of his kitchen cupboards. At every broken piece, Mrs. Hudson flinched but only slowly retreated to the door.

“Sherlock—,” she began once more as he bent down to seize another plate.

“ _What_!?” he bellowed and raised his grey eyes, ablaze with anger and unmet aspirations, at his landlady. “What do you want?”

“At least put on some shoes. You’re gonna cut yourself, running around with bare feet,” she said in her usual motherly manner, “and John’s not here to doctor you up.”

At her last comment, Sherlock let out a furious howl that made Mrs. Hudson finally hurry back out the door and, in another frustration-fuelled frenzy, hurled the remainder of the dishes at the smiley face on the opposite wall. The smashing sound of the projectiles finding their target rose to a familiar and tragic melody, echoing in his ears and somewhere in his ribcage.

Why wasn’t John here? Why didn’t he respond? Would he once again cast Sherlock from his life, leaving him damaged as he was, not even worth the oxygen he consumed? Because, what was Sherlock Holmes without John Watson? Nothing but damaged goods, stripped of his usefulness, bared and broken; Sherlock Holmes—the defective detective.

He panted, now having pulverized every single bit of breakable dishware he owned, his emotions still running wild and violently demanding another object to fall victim to their obliterative force. Nothing was safe from the tsunami that flooded his nervous system.

Sherlock had just begun to disassemble the second bookshelf as a faint beep crept to his ear. Instantly, he stopped his frantic fumbling and stared at his desk. Panic arose in him. He had waited hours for this sound but, now that the moment of truth had finally arrived, he was incapable of getting up to actually look at the text he’d just received; the text that would be the signpost for his future relationship with John Watson. He just sat there, frozen, environed by the gigantic mess he had made, and felt his heartbeat stumble in his throat.

Seconds thick as honey crept by sluggardly before Sherlock gained control over his limbs again. He wobbled slightly as he came to stand. For a moment, he feared his transport would fail him again and simply collapse under the pressure weighing on him.

With embarrassingly shaking fingers, he grabbed the phone. When was the last time he had shown such a ridiculously emotional response to the chance of rejection? He had dealt with it his entire life; people being repelled by him, people telling him to piss off. Why did it hurt so much more when it came from John? “You _know_ why, Sherlock,” scoffed Mycroft’s voice in his head and Sherlock growled in frustration.

Gathering all his strength and admonishing his mind to _just. stay. calm_ , he finally picked up the phone and read the text.

 

 

Sherlock’s heart danced in relief as he sank back into the shredded remains of his flat. He let out a dark, velvety chuckle from the depths of his chest. Soon, this would be his, _their_ , home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are moving back together, hurray!  
> 


	3. John's Chapter: Driving Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That John was the one driving them back from Norfolk was nothing short of extraordinary. But the last two days had been nothing if not extraordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest readers!
> 
> Your responses so far have motivated me so much, I can barely tell you. Your praise means the world to me! <3
> 
> I like to think of this chapter as a fluff sandwich: There's fluff in the end and in the beginning but the middle features some hurt/comfort (that just... sort of happened). I hope it lives up to your expectations :)
> 
> **WARNING:** This chapter mentions abuse (not detailed)! If this triggers you, please take precautions and be safe <3
> 
>  
> 
> This chapters soundtrack is:  
> [Tracy Chapman, Fast Car](https://youtu.be/DwrHwZyFN7M)

# John’s Chapter: Driving Sherlock Holmes

_So, remember we were driving, driving in your car,_

_Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk._

_City lights lay out before us_

_And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder._

_I had a feeling that I belonged._

_I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone._

 

Tracy Chapman, Fast Car.

 

The nightly street stretched out before him like a black satin sheet, its wet surface reflecting the red and white of the other cars’ lights in an array of kaleidoscopic flashes. John’s hand lay loosely on the steering wheel as he followed the road signs that would bring them back to London. He quickly glanced over at Sherlock whose head had sunken against the window. His mouth slightly agape and his slender limbs curled inside his coat for warmth and comfort, he looked wonderfully human and completely out of this world at the same time. The dancing flickers of colourful light illuminated his features. John smiled calmly to himself as he forcefully drew his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight that was the face of Sherlock Holmes.

That John was the one driving them back from Norfolk was nothing short of extraordinary. But the last two days had been nothing if not extraordinary. Usually, he would refrain from even discussing the matter with Sherlock and simply hop on the passenger’s seat since the alternatives were far less pleasurable: Either they would have a row over whose turn it was and fighting with Sherlock was seldom worth the outcome; or John would stand up to him and then would have to endure a car ride with a pouty Sherlock that constantly criticized every single aspect of his driving style. His friend was certainly a man with a multitude of incredible talents but riding shotgun was not one of them.

So, Sherlock handing him the car keys spoke volumes. Since Sherlock had not protested even as he turned on the radio—a habit that normally entailed a scornful analysis of today’s pop songs—and fallen asleep almost immediately, John had first ascribed it to simple exhaustion. Sherlock hadn’t slept at all last night but he had seen Sherlock go days without eating or resting properly and still demanding control over everything. John had often suspected that the trials of the last few years had taken their toll on Sherlock’s body and his resources were slowly but steadily depleting. This incident just seemed to present another piece of evidence supporting his hypothesis. John himself was utterly exhausted after the case they had just solved but at least he had gotten a few hours of rest. They weren’t in their early thirties anymore and John surely felt the effects of progressing age on his own stamina. Not that either of them would ever admit to it.

In a quiet corner of his head, however, John’s conscience was tempted to accredit Sherlock’s willingness to give up his rigid principles to something different. He had witnessed a similar change in his demeanour on a few occasions recently, now that he came to think of it. Over the course of the last three weeks, ever since the day Sherlock had texted him about coming back to Baker Street, about coming back home to him, he had been exceptionally sweet-tempered (even if that still came short of what other people considered basic politeness); Sherlock had moved his more dangerous and disgusting experiments out of the kitchen and into the empty flat in the basement; He had taken John to Harrod’s to choose a new set of dishes and actually listened to his preferences—what had happened to the old ones John never found out, Sherlock simply said he needed them for an experiment; He even went out and bought nappies for Rosie. If it didn’t contradict everything John thought he knew about Sherlock, he would have said that Sherlock Holmes actually made an effort.

In light of this new, almost mindful Sherlock, John’s and Rosie’s return to 221B Baker Street had been a breeze. As soon as John set foot into 221B later that remarkable November day, he knew that things were going to be okay. Being back in one flat with Sherlock felt like lapsing into a hot bath after being outside in the cold for far too long; the tension immediately drained out of them both as they relaxed into what seemed nothing short of their natural habitat. From this point on, everything around them just flowed smoothly; The lease on the house John had lived in with Mary could be terminated remarkably fast although John suspected that Mycroft had pulled some strings in that matter. In one of the most ridiculous and blissful afternoons of John’s entire life, they had painted Rosie’s nursery in a light daffodil yellow and Sherlock had singlehandedly fixed a bordure of cute little bumblebees to the wall. Even the issue of the shared bedroom had resolved itself.

John had admittedly been a little concerned that Sherlock had not thought things through completely until his friend stated that Rosie would need a room of her own eventually when she was older and they might as well get used to only having one bedroom to themselves. Despite the matter-of-fact tone bordering on irritation, John’s insides had warmed with contentment given Sherlock’s long-term plans for their living arrangement. This form of commitment began to thaw some of the icy insecurity that had clung to him since he and the Holmes brothers had been Eurus’ captives. “Look at him,” had Mycroft said. “What is he? Nothing more than a distraction, a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You’ll find another.” And although Sherlock had dismissed everything as an act of provocation so that he would find it easier to shoot Mycroft, the words had stuck with John and nagged on his insides like a parasite. Since they had moved back in together, it had shrunk every day. Sherlock drove him up the walls as usual and strained his mental and physical abilities in every way imaginable but he never, not for one second, made him believe that he was replaceable.

And So, John found himself back in his home, spending every day with the two people he held most dear in the world. He found himself chasing criminals throughout the enigmatic and spellbinding city of London with his even more enigmatic and spellbinding flatmate again. He found himself caring for his infant daughter. And he found himself healing.

Now, that he sat in the car, a peacefully sleeping Sherlock by his side and every mile bringing them a little closer to the home they shared, an almost incomprehensible amount of gratefulness and serenity flooded his veins. That his life would feel this complete again only months after Mary’s death had been unthinkable for so long.

The little smile faded from his face as a sense of guilt tainted his contentment. Had he forgotten about Mary already? After Sherlock’s fall, he had been a mess for years. There was nothing he could hold onto, no one to give him a sense of belonging. He had been hopelessly and utterly forlorn. The pain of losing Mary had been acute and overwhelming for the first few weeks after her passing, but now… It was nothing in comparison to the devastation and mind-numbing sense of loss that had come with Sherlock’s death. The thought that he let Mary down by moving on haunted him constantly and, yet, he couldn’t keep himself from feeling a little less broken every day.

He knew that his wife had always wanted him to be happy. And that this happiness was to include Sherlock had been made very clear by her last video message. “I know you two. And if I’m gone, I know what you could become,” echoed her words through John’s head. Naturally, he had interpreted this line as a warning upon first hearing it, a warning that he and Sherlock might drift into the dark territory of grief and guilt and get lost in the fog. Over the past few weeks, however, the words had changed meaning for John. Mary had known him so well, even better than he knew himself, he suspected. Maybe her last outreach to him had not only been a prompt to keep working with Sherlock. Maybe she had seen something John had not allowed to even think about, especially not mere months after losing his wife. Maybe she had believed that Sherlock and John could become something… more.

A tiny snore escaped Sherlock’s full lips as he readjusted his head on the car window and John forcefully pulled his mind away from the tempting cool depths of his thoughts. He couldn’t allow his conscience to plunge into these waters. The risk that he might succumb to them, slowly sink deeper, and never come back up for air was just too high. John took a deep breath as to remind himself that there was still oxygen around him and focused back on the street.

He thanked fate that Sherlock was asleep and couldn’t observe potential signs of his inner turmoil. The case justified a fair amount of emotional distress, he thought, but John would rather Sherlock didn’t have to wonder at all.

 

___________________________________

 

_Two days earlier._

 

The little village in Norfolk John and Sherlock had been summoned to was exceptionally idyllic. Or it would have been without the air of loss lingering upon it, filling the narrow streets, distressing anyone that entered. Just two days ago, a dead body had been found on the beach, washed up like driftwood, and precipitated the whole village into deep sable grief. The body had been identified as Ethan Nichols, the son of a local family. He was only sixteen.

Apparently, Ethan had been out for his morning swim, something he did even in bleak winter, and not returned. Upon finding the body, everyone had suspected that he had drowned—a tragedy, surely, but nothing that the area hadn’t seen before. A more thorough examination, however, overturned this calming hypothesis: There was no water in Ethan’s lungs. He had been dead before he was put in the ocean. It was murder.

When they had received the call from Lestrade far too early this morning, John had been less than thrilled by the idea to leave Rosie alone for God knew how long, but the DI, let alone Sherlock, could be very persuasive. A former colleague had contacted Lestrade after the first examination of the body and requested Sherlock’s services. She was leading the investigation and would provide access to all crucial information and resources as long as the consulting detective came right away, promised Lestrade.

Sherlock, of course, was intrigued by the tricky case (he would have taken positively any distraction that day, pondered John) and, before he knew it, they put their suitcases in the trunk of the small rental car Sherlock had organized and off they were to the coast. Sherlock spent the three-hour ride almost completely in silence, already contemplating theories, John guessed, while he was stuck with nothing to do but stare out the window.

Working with Sherlock was an elementary part of his life and dictated most of his everyday routines but they hadn’t been out of town for a case for quite some time now. He felt a little nervous at the thought of spending the night away from Baker Street. Rosie, he knew, was safe with Mrs. Hudson and Molly, but now that he and Sherlock were finally growing closer again he feared that anything out of their usual routine might disturb the perfect homeostasis they had achieved.

The small hotel they planned on staying at had barely opened when their car pulled up on the parking space in front. With its picturesque whitewashed stone walls and grey window shutters, it fit perfectly into the scenic coastal landscape. Sherlock had booked it and John couldn’t help but chuckle, half amused, half exasperated, at the thought that he had accidentally chosen the single most romantic destination for a short getaway he could find. God, people would talk.

As usual, Sherlock left the task of checking in and chatting with the staff to John, while he planned their further course of action. The twenty-something year old that stood behind the counter handed John the keys to their twin room and offered to take their luggage upstairs but John refused politely. He felt oddly taken back to their trip to Dartmoor when they had stayed in the Cross Keys, vividly reliving the embarrassment as Gary had mistaken him and Sherlock for a couple and apologized for the lack of a double bed in their room. Now, however, that he and Sherlock actually shared a bed every night, a curious sense of loss stirred in his chest at the thought that they would sleep separately tonight.

He was roused from this most peculiar feeling by Sherlock that hurried him to get rid of their suitcases so they could finally start working. John rolled his eyes at him but obeyed his orders with the smallest of grins on his lips as soon as the other man had turned around again. Sherlock’s manic energy when there was a mystery to unravel was still as intoxicating as the day John had first met him.

Sherlock parked their rental car in front of the hospital in the next bigger town. As they got out, they were met by a petite woman about five years younger than Sherlock with a freckled face and sleek dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“DC Fuller, I presume,” Sherlock said as he shook the hand she reached out to him.

“And you must be the famous Sherlock Holmes. So glad you could make it.” He didn’t reciprocate the smile she flashed at him, so John made sure to look extra friendly as she greeted him next.

They made their way to the mortuary where Ethan Nichols was laid out. John clenched his brows and fists sombrely at the sight of the lifeless body in front of him. He was only a kid, a boy that would never become a man. His face framed by ash blond hair would forever be stuck between the soft features of a child and the emerging markers of adulthood. Smooth white skin stretched tightly over lean muscles that clearly indicated a lot of physical activity. After all, John thought, he had gone out for a swim every day in the break of dawn. Now, the pale flesh was blemished by angry red lines drawn all over the torso up to his throat in a mazy pattern that resembled lightning.

John and DC Fuller watched as Sherlock examined the body in his familiar fashion, almost dancing around the gurney in swift movements, completely forgetting about his surroundings.

“It’s Katie, by the way,” said the Detective Constable and tore her interested gaze away from Sherlock who closely explored the markings on Ethan’s body with his magnifying glass.

“John,” he replied and they exchanged quick smiles.

“So, Greg said you are something like his live-in PA?” Katie teased and fixed her eyes on Sherlock again.

“Just his flatmate. And his blogger,” said John, determined to get back at Lestrade the next time he saw him.

“Must be exciting. Crime solving mates in central London.”

“I’m never bored, that’s for sure. Have you ever had a murder here before?”

“Not since I’ve transferred, no. At least nothing like this. Every once in a while, some drunk arsehole beats the shit out of some other arsehole or, far worse, his wife, but that’s about how bad things get around here.” A hint of disappointment tinted her voice and John looked at her with the corner of his lips curled up in a half-smirk.

Katie met his gaze slightly smiling in embarrassment for a second, then turning serious again.

“His poor parents. I know them, grew up around here. Whoever did this must pay. We need to solve this as quickly as possible.” John could imagine the pressure that weighed down on a young detective when something like this happened in such an otherwise peaceful neighbourhood.

“Don’t worry. I bet, Sherlock’s gonna crack this in less than a day,” he said encouragingly.

Katie smiled at him again and they began to chat about working with Lestrade in London. Her voice was now clearly traced with regret and a little envy. John silently surmised that she probably would rather have stayed in the city instead of moving to the countryside.

“These marks,” Sherlock interrupted them, finally resurfacing from the depths of his scientific analysis, “are interesting.”

“Some of the locals think they’re from a poisonous jellyfish. They’ve gone out to catch it before it kills someone else,” said Katie.

“It’s venomous,” corrected Sherlock without looking up from the body in front of him.

“Pardon?”

“Venomous. Poison needs to be ingested. Jellyfish inject their victims; thus, they are venomous, not poisonous.”

“Right, so, the marks are from a venomous jellyfish?”

“No, of course not, but someone went through a lot of trouble to make it look like that.”

 

***

 

John devoured his plate of seafood pasta with almost animalistic appetite. All day, they had interviewed suspects and possible witnesses, and John had only lived off bad coffee and a pack of crisps from the vending machine. Sherlock poked around in his own portion, only eating when John eyed him carefully. Of course, he had refused to order anything at first but John had not accepted his usual argument that digestion slowed him down.

“We’re not gonna investigate anything further this evening. What does it matter if you’re slowed down at night?”

Sherlock had glared at him, his grey-blue eyes narrowed. “Fine,” he had finally said, slightly digging his front teeth into his plush lower lip while dragging out the f-sound. John caught himself staring at that damn mouth a little longer than necessary and quickly buried his gaze in the drink menu.

As they went up to their room, Sherlock gave a barely audible hum at the sight of the two single beds standing next to each other on the wall to the left. John was almost certain that he had seen a frown wander over his friend’s pale face as he headed into the bathroom to have a quick wash and brush his teeth. As he dried his face in one of the fluffy white towels, the sound of wood scraping against wood pierced his ears. He poked his head out of the bathroom just to see Sherlock push one of the twin beds across the floor until the gap between them was completely closed. Upon John’s raised eyebrows, Sherlock’s determined little smile gave way to an insecure expression. “Not good?”

John licked his suddenly very dry lips and said: “No, it’s… it’s fine.” He forced himself to smile but couldn’t ignore the prickling in his stomach, somewhere between excitement and panic. Or maybe the mussels hadn’t been that fresh.

When they each lay in their respective bed—although Sherlock’s rearrangement of the furniture had rendered the distinction between them futile—John checked his phone for messages from Molly or Mrs. Hudson. He felt a sting of guilt because he hadn’t managed to call at a reasonable hour to ask about Rosie. Hopefully, she was still too young to remember that he abandoned her occasionally.

“You’re not wearing your wedding ring anymore,” cut Sherlock’s voice through John’s worries and prompted him to look first at his friend and then at his own hand in astonishment. Of course, Sherlock had noticed. The odd thing was that John hadn’t.

“I… must’ve taken it off and then forgot to put it back on,” he mumbled at the realization that he couldn’t even remember when that had happened and rubbed his ring finger.

“No wonder that DC Fuller feels entitled to flirt with you then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John replied defensively and turned the bedside lamp off to hide his cheeks flushing, not—as Sherlock might have deduced—in embarrassment about Katie’s advances but because of the poorly disguised traces of jealousy in Sherlock’s voice.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

Neither of them found sleep for hours.

 

***

 

John’s forecast had been wrong. It took them almost three full days to solve Ethan Nichols’ murder. Witnesses were nowhere to be found and almost everyone they interviewed acted suspiciously. As it turned out, the idyll of the village was nothing but a carefully cultivated façade, covering up more grudges and dirty little secrets than John would have thought possible. And one, Sherlock and he agreed, must have been the death of Ethan Nichols.

Since all residents were more or less lying about something, it was distinctly more difficult to sort out the innocent ones. Sherlock finally broke loose in the church of all places. While the residents gathered to mourn collectively, he rolled into their middle like a force of nature, leaving nothing in his way in its initial place. When he was finished with his deductions and had exposed all kinds of affairs, porn addictions, substance abuse or money problems, the once so quaint village all but lay in ashes. It turned out that Evan’s mother was one of the people cheating on their spouses which represented itself as a brilliant new lead. But nothing came up in further investigation. Both Mr. Nichols and Mr. Daniels, Ethan’s math teacher, had an alibi. Their public exposition, however, entailed a brawl between the two men and a nervous breakdown on the part of Mrs. Nichols that sent her to the hospital.

As it was always the case in quiet peaceful neighbourhoods, the gossip that spread in the course of the investigation was bound to ruin more lives than the death of Ethan Nichols itself. And still, the murderer was on the loose. John wondered if a community could ever recover from a catastrophe like this, as he tried to clean up the mess of personal tragedies Sherlock had so cruelly left behind. Sometimes it seemed that all progress regarding empathetic behaviour Sherlock had made over the years vanished the second he couldn’t crack a puzzle right away. John couldn’t help but be deeply disappointed.

Sherlock spent the following night at the hospital’s lab, trying to identify the poison that he was sure had killed Ethan but couldn’t find anything. As he picked up John from the hotel the next morning, Sherlock resembled a dead body himself. John had carefully watched out for any signs of fatigue in his friend over the past few weeks. He didn’t want to miss Sherlock’s distress again as he had with his nightmares. Now that Sherlock hadn’t slept two nights in a row, John was tempted to order him to rest but he knew that it was no use as long as the case wasn’t closed. Besides, he was still disgruntled because of Sherlock’s recklessness and not in the mood to force some self-care on the detective.

It was already afternoon as the epiphany hit Sherlock. What if Ethan hadn’t been killed to keep someone else’s secret but because of a secret of his own? After another examination of the body his hypothesis was confirmed: Someone had strangled Ethan Nichols to death and applied a chemical solution with hundreds of pinpricks to mirror the reaction of a jellyfish attack to cover their tracks on his neck. Knowing about Ethan’s morning ritual and that water would wash away even more of the evidence, the murderer had dumped the body into the ocean in hopes the apparent jellyfish markings would label his death a tragic accident.

“Killing someone with your bare hands? That’s a crime of passion,” said Sherlock his eyes twitching rapidly in thought, “but the murderer didn’t get flustered. Instead, they intricately staged an accident. We’re looking for someone with access to chemical supplies.”

An hour later, Katie picked up Ethan’s biology teacher, Ms. Brower, a redhaired woman around thirty with an aura of sensibility and vulnerability that made John’s stomach clench with his natural protective instincts. This couldn’t possibly be a cold-blooded killer. But in the interrogation, she broke down and confessed to strangling Ethan. They had had an affair since the summer vacation but Ethan was about to break it off. In a fit of rage, she had killed the boy.

“We were so in love and then suddenly he wants nothing to do with me anymore,” she cried and her bright blue eyes now overflowing with tears looked at John pleadingly.

Sherlock left the room while Katie still recorded Ms. Brower’s statement. John followed him, thinking he might be sick if he stayed another second. In the coldly lit hallway, Sherlock leaned against the wall and covered his worn-out face with slim elegant fingers. John couldn’t quite hide his surprise to see his friend this agitated. Usually, a solved puzzle put Sherlock over the moon. Often enough, they had raised looks of reproach and anger when Sherlock had displayed his self-satisfaction a little too openly.

“You alright?” asked John concernedly and approached his friend.

“Who does something like that?” Sherlock asked in return and let his hands slid off his face to fixate John with his intense eyes, now filled with genuine desolation.

“I know, killing a kid just like—,” John began but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Not the murder. I’ve seen my fair share of that. Who abuses a child like that and calls it love?” His voice trembled slightly and John’s heart all but broke at the sound. The sudden urge to hug Sherlock as tight as possible overwhelmed him. Without a second thought, he gave into it. Sherlock didn’t resist or draw back as John flung one of his arms around his waist and cupped his head with the other. Silently, Sherlock began to weep into John’s shoulder.

John didn’t move or make a sound. There was too much unspoken pain for words to salve. He could put two and two together why Sherlock was so deeply affected by this case but he would never dare to address the topic if Sherlock didn’t broach it first. He would just hold him, comfort him, be there for him. Always.

___________________________________

 

John clenched his eyes shut for a quick second and blinked rapidly to chase away the tiredness that caressed him with gentle fingers and called him to bed. Maybe they should have stayed another night. At the next service station, he stopped and bought a cup of truly horrible coffee. Sherlock stirred only slightly as John hopped back into the car and tried to drink as much of the scolding liquid as he could without burning his throat. As he steered back onto the motorway, the slender figure next to him moved once more. Apparently finding the cold surface of the car window now less comfortable, Sherlock’s head raised, turned to the other side and then came to rest on his own right shoulder. John calmly smiled as he gathered speed and took another sip of his coffee. Just a couple more miles, a couple more hours and they would be home. At the thought of seeing Rosie and then curling up in his bed next to Sherlock, John’s smile only broadened.

The car rumbled over an uneven patch of asphalt and Sherlock’s head slipped off his shoulder and onto John’s. For a moment, John froze completely, not even daring to breathe, as dark curls brushed over the bare skin of his neck. All of a sudden, he was wide awake again, every single one of his nerves buzzing with electricity. From where Sherlock was touching him goosebumps began to spread over his entire body. What was happening?

As John took a controlled slow breath, the intoxicating scent of Sherlock’s hair hit his nose and trickled right into his veins, quickening his heartbeat and making him dizzy. It was the second time within a few hours that John was so close to Sherlock. But this time, without the bitter taste of grim memories lingering in the air, it was nothing but exhilarating. And possibly extremely awkward if Sherlock woke up now, John thought, still unable to move even the slightest bit.

Sherlock budged again in his sleep and John took another deep breath from the other man’s inebriant perfume, barely resisting the urge to bury his nose deep in those damn silky curls, before his friend would certainly wake up and move back in embarrassment. But Sherlock only made the cutest little smacking sound and adjusted himself even closer to John, now nestling his head completely at John’s neck, his left arm flung over, hand resting on John’s thigh. His skin tingled under the touch in unfamiliar intensity as he desperately tried to concentrate on driving. John’s heartbeat thundered in his ears at a volume that should have made it impossible for Sherlock not to wake up. But the younger man’s breathing was slow and steady as he leaned closely against John and stayed sound asleep.

After a few minutes, John had regained his composure and settled into this new position. What else was he supposed to do? It was not like he didn’t enjoy having Sherlock this close to him. The warmth of Sherlock’s body slowly leaked through his coat right into John’s skin and invigorated him far more than the caffeine possible could. Cautiously, John raised his left hand the few inches he could without waking his friend and placed gentle fingers on Sherlock’s thigh, slowly rubbing his thumb over the smooth fabric of his expensive trousers. Upon the touch, a little pleased sound reminiscent of a purring cat escaped Sherlock’s throat. John’s insides turned a somersault at this endearing noise.

Suddenly, he wished the drive would go on like this forever, with skies like ink above and a slumbering detective snuggled up against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've never been to Norfolk and have no knowledge about jellyfish whatsoever, I'm sure there are a lot of discrepancies in this chapter :D Writing cases is an absolute nightmare but concrit is, of course, always welcomed! <3


	4. Sherlock's Chapter: Gentle Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock now followed a new approach altogether: He tried to reciprocate these acts of kindness up to his own capability—which didn’t allow for much, really. Pleasing people was not Sherlock’s strong suit; that had been made clear throughout his entire life. Yet, there had to be ways for him to show John how much he loved having him around again but, as always, Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out what made John Watson tick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :)
> 
> This next chapter was inspired by real events :D  
> It's mostly a fluff show :) Enjoy!  
> I dedicate this to [itsalwaysyou_jw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw) who sparked my ambition to write this whole fiction <3 Loads of love to you!  
> Her submissions to the Advent Calendar Challenge inspired next week's chapter as well! Go check them out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784428/chapters/39390127), their brilliant!
> 
> This chapter's song:  
> [Elton John, Your Song](https://youtu.be/GlPlfCy1urI) or check out this beautiful version by [Ellie Goulding](https://youtu.be/D9AFMVMl9qE)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Gentle Treatment

_And you can tell everybody_  
_This is your song._  
_It may be quite simple but_  
_Now that it's done_  
_I hope you don't mind,_  
_I hope you don't mind_  
_That I put down in words_  
_How wonderful life is_  
_Now you're in the world._

 

Elton John, Your Song.

 

December began and 221B Baker Street was illuminated by fairy lights John had spread all over the sitting room. Sherlock didn’t put up a fight at the sight of the little lights arranged over the fireplace and on the windowsills, especially because he had terribly missed the way John decorated the flat for Christmas, even if he would never admit that. It was just one of the things that made the space feel like a real home, something Sherlock had subconsciously wished for as long as he had been on this earth. His mind wandered back to dark places, to cold months without John’s little lights to guide a way back home, to years of icy isolation from everyone and everything he held dear. He had reason to hope now that he would never have to go back there. Because John was with him now.

The way John cared for Sherlock was everything he needed to seal all the gaping holes and cracks in his being. He had been broken down to his very essence, endured more trauma and heartbreak than he could count, but now, with John back at his side, he would build himself back up again, in new brighter colours, with more windows in his walls to let John’s sunlight in.

There were still secret, ash coloured corners in his mind that someday, maybe, he would open up to John’s golden embrace if he ever mustered the courage to. Every time he let John catch a glimpse of the desolation that lay behind his barricades, allowing him to see all the ways he was a misfit in this bleak universe, Sherlock was sure that his friend would be appalled. How couldn’t he be? But then John was just… kind to him, kind and calm and steady. Sherlock knew that he could trust him unconditionally when it came to fighting the wars of the world but burdening him with the mountains of pain he carried on his shoulders would certainly break even the bravest of men. He had put John through enough already.

He was content to just bath in John’s radiance every day, to soak up his warmth, and fight the demons of his past on his own. As long as John was by his side, Sherlock knew that he would emerge victorious.

As they sat down one December evening, both exhausted from assisting Lestrade on a case which unfortunately called for a lot of lengthy stake-outs, the flat lay in comfortable silence. Mrs. Hudson had already put Rosie to bed in her room where she, fortunately, slumbered now. John made tea and handed Sherlock a couple of gingernuts with his cup and a quiet smile before he slumped down on the sofa and turned on the telly.

Sherlock had noticed that these little caring gestures had increased exponentially since they had returned from Norfolk. At first, Sherlock had hated it; He was angry at himself for breaking down at the precinct, displaying such weakness, and angry at John for trying to coddle him. However, pushing John away with snarky remarks and cruel comments had stopped working a long time ago. John just rolled his eyes at him and stayed stoically right where he was, only showing his hurt in the most minuscule ways possible. These little markers—brows a little too furrowed, jaw a little too clenched—made Sherlock realize that John was genuinely worried about him. Wasn’t it cruel to forbid him to act on his protectiveness? After all, Sherlock would rather John cared about him than go back to a world where John was not only indifferent to his pain but even inflicting it purposefully. John taking care of him had never once been a disadvantage, not to mention that Sherlock enjoyed the hopeful tingling in his chest when John displayed signs of affection. So, what use was in fighting it? His anger followed no logic. Therefore, his reactions needed to change.

Instead of snapping at John, Sherlock now followed a new approach altogether: He tried to reciprocate these acts up to his own capability—which didn’t allow for much, really. Pleasing people was not Sherlock’s strong suit; that had been made clear throughout his entire life. Yet, there had to be ways for him to show John how much he loved having him around again but, as always, Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out what made John Watson tick.

So, he carefully conducted tiny experiments. His past activities—trying to limit his deductions to people outside of his close circle, calming Rosie whenever John was especially stressed, taking his opinion into account whenever he remembered to—had proven quite successful if John’s overall happy demeanour was any indicator. Doing the dishes and the shopping seemed to work, too, while any drink or food Sherlock prepared in order to please John was met with open suspicion. Considering how often he had traced his food with differing substances for experiments, that actually was no wonder, Sherlock presumed. Still, he was pretty disappointed with this outcome since he discovered that the chemistry of baking actually had a very meditative effect on his racing mind. He would just keep trying; maybe John would get over his vigilance eventually. Other endeavours, however, proved completely fruitless, such as opening John’s mail and paying his bills or arranging his clothes in a more convenient order. Sherlock mentally marked these activities as failures and made sure to derive as much information from John’s reaction as possible. Apparently, going through the things John regarded _private_ was a bit not good although these invisible lines people always drew seemed completely random to Sherlock. And gradually he ran out of ideas. Undoubtedly, further research was necessary.

The day before, when John had left him alone in the flat, Sherlock had sat down with his laptop and spent the next few hours googling phrases like “how to be a good friend”. The results varied from partly useful to wildly preposterous. It appeared that a friend was supposed to compliment his counterpart, be trustworthy and reliable, make sure the other felt happy, help them in difficult situations, and display affection for them in various ways. Especially the last point sounded exceptionally tedious but the harvest might still justify the labour.

“The tea always tastes better when you make it,” Sherlock now said after taking a sip, his voice timider than he had desired.

John was clearly baffled by the compliment; His head jerked around with such rapid movement that he almost spilled his own cup of tea in his eagerness to look at the younger man. His eyes scanned Sherlock’s features for signs of dishonesty or mockery but found only a coy smile curling full lips. Slowly, John’s expression relaxed and reflected Sherlock’s smile.

“Thank you, Sherlock. That’s… I’m glad,” he said, still hesitating a little. Sherlock was not quite satisfied with his reaction.

“And I like your new button-down,” he added, trying to sound serious and friendly at the same time—not an easy combination to master for him. “The colour really suits you.”

To his discontent, John just rolled his eyes at him and playfully snapped: “Yeah, right. Give it a rest, you git.” He turned his gaze back to whatever was on the telly and slightly shook his head in what Sherlock could only guess was some form of scepticism.

“But, John, I mean it.” Weren’t people supposed to be pleased by compliments?

John chuckled disbelievingly and fixated him again, eyes narrowed in exaggerated suspicion. “You set one of my jumpers on fire again and now you want to build up to an apology,” he accused him jokingly.

“No, of course not.” This really wasn’t the way Sherlock had imagined this conversation to go. The few times he had paid people compliments—for the sole purpose of manipulating their feeble egos—it had always worked. Why did things never go according to plan with John Watson?

“Then why are you being so nice?” John asked, his voice now displaying equal parts of amusement and concern. Sherlock was suddenly very aware of his hands and thankful for the cup to wrap around.

“Just trying something,” he mumbled into his tea, avoiding John’s eyes. Sherlock was not sure how to evaluate this new approach but acquiring additional data would have to wait until tomorrow. He couldn’t possibly endure any more of this awkwardness right now.

“Right.” John dragged out the word and redirected his attention to the telly.

The rest of the evening was spent in relative quietude while both men dwelled on their own thoughts. At half past ten, John got up and made his way to the bath- and then the bedroom. Sherlock gave him the usual ten-minute head start before he followed suit. As he entered the bedroom, _their_ bedroom now, John was already rolled to a tight cuddly burrito of blankets, ready to fall asleep in an instant. Sherlock slid under the covers next to him, his back to John, and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp.

In the all-cloaking darkness, John’s soft voice, already muffled by imminent sleep, floated to his ear: “It’s nice when you’re being kind, Sherlock. Just took me by surprise a little, I guess. But I like it.”

“You do?” Sherlock whispered. Why did his voice suddenly sound so hoarse?

“’Course I do,” said John, barely conscious. A minute later his breaths were already so deep and steady that Sherlock was sure he had fallen asleep. His own transport, however, didn’t allow him to drift off that easily. John’s words still rang in his head, demanding a revaluation of the evening’s development; Compliments were useful to display affection and appreciation after all. Sherlock would just have to apply them regularly so John knew he was being serious. That wasn’t that hard. There were thousands and thousands of little positive things Sherlock noticed about John and just never found the necessity—or the nerves—to utter. _Give at least five compliments daily_ , Sherlock wrote on his mental checklist. He could still adjust the amount according to John’s reaction later on. Satisfied with his results and a little proud, Sherlock lay in the dark and felt a grin perk up the corners of his mouth.

Next to him, John began to toss and turn, uneasy moans escaping his throat. Sherlock suspended his own breathing to listen closely, not sure how to categorize these sounds. Was John having a nightmare? Or… a different kind of dream? Carefully, Sherlock turned to his other side and tried to make out John’s face. His features were barely visible in the gloom but Sherlock believed they looked rather pained than pleased. He was just about to move closer for a better look when John’s eyes sprang open. They struggled to pierce the darkness and, then, found Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice had an unsettling quality to it.

“John?” Sherlock answered and simultaneously fumbled for the bedside lamp to finally see John’s expression.

“I don’t feel so good, I think I might be—,” John began but the rest of the sentence was lost because he sprang from the bed and rushed into the bathroom. Seconds later, Sherlock heard a nasty combination of gagging and splashing sounds. _Oh, no._

Worriedly, he rose and poked his head through the door to find John kneeling in front of the toilet, still violently throwing up. Sherlock had a strong stomach usually; a prerequisite for being a detective and a scientist. He couldn’t remember the last time something had really made him sick. For goodness sake, he experimented with severed body parts as often as he could get his hands on anything from the morgue. But somehow, in an inexplicable flash of concern, seeing John on his knees, his body heaving in painful contractions, was too much for him. His whole system shut down. Sherlock could only stand in the doorway, frozen in panic, staring at his friend. _Oh, no, John’s sick. Not good. John can’t be sick. Oh, no_ , his mind spiraled. Mycroft had been so right; Caring was not an advantage. It just disabled any rational thought.

Finally, John’s body lost tension and slumped into a little trembling mess of limbs on the cold floor tiles. With weak hands, he flushed the toilet and turned around to look at Sherlock, who still gawked at him with bright blue eyes wide open in distress.

“Get Rosie out of here,” John panted, his face white as a sheet and bedewed with sweat. “I can’t risk that she contracts this too, she’s too small!”

The addressed didn’t move.

“Sherlock!”

At last, his brain decided to respond to John’s words and kicked his body into action. He rushed out of the bathroom and yelled for Mrs. Hudson until she finally—hours later, Sherlock was sure—came hurrying up the stairs in her nightgown. Her face mirrored the alarm Sherlock couldn’t wipe off his own features. Yet, as he just cried out that John was sick, her fearful expression eased into slight concern laced with something almost resembling amusement. How was John being in pain _funny_?!

“Good God, Sherlock, I thought someone was about to blow up the flat again,” she chuckled in apparent relief.

Sherlock was about to snap at her for her lack of understanding the incredible seriousness of the situation but then decided there were more pressing issues to address. He quickly shooed Mrs. Hudson upstairs to grab Rosie from her crib and get her to the safety of her own flat before the little girl could get in contact with him or John. Fear and concern still fogged his mind as he paced up and down the sitting room, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring Rosie down.

After they finally had left, Sherlock returned to John, finding him sitting on his side of the bed. His face was still rather pale but at least the shivering had stopped. John shot him an apologetical smile while Sherlock just stood in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. He wanted to make John feel better, no matter what it took. That was what a good friend was supposed to do. And he wanted to be a good friend for John Watson, so badly.  
First and foremost, he needed data. Data formed the universe’s fabric. Data brought sense and logic and security.

“When and what did you eat and drink last?” asked Sherlock, his voice slipping into the matter-of-fact but eager tone he used on clients.

“Ehm, a cup of tea and biscuits with you, like four hours ago.” John rubbed his face and Sherlock’s stomach clenched at the sight of his friend’s evident fatigue and discomfort. Seeing John suffer in any form always afflicted him with the nagging sensation of acid burning through his inner organs. Empathy was surely one of the most useless and counterproductive outcomes of evolutionary history ever. Thank God, Mycroft wasn't here to witness his reactions.

“Hm, can’t be it, I’ve had the same thing and I’m fine,” Sherlock said and waved his hand dismissively, now beginning to pace the room again to wear off some of the nervous energy seething in his body.

“I had a sandwich for lunch at two-ish, that’s it,” John said after short consideration.

“Unlikely. First symptoms of food poisoning normally occur two to six hours after ingestion,” replied Sherlock, his bare feet tapping on the bedroom floor in anxious movement.

“I know, Sherlock, I’m a doctor.” John rolled his eyes at him, although his words bore less of the annoyance he usually used when Sherlock spurned his medical expertise. He really was etiolated.

“So, it’s most likely a stomach bug. Good call to get Rosie out of here.” Sherlock once again admired John’s ability to prioritize everyone else’s safety and well-being, even while vomiting his heart out.

“You should go too, I don’t want you to be sick,” John said softly as if to highlight Sherlock’s thoughts.

“John, I’ve been in very close proximity to you over the last 48 hours. If it’s the stomach flu, I’ve already caught it by now.”

“Still, the next couple of hours won’t be fun,” John replied with a weary smile. “You don’t need to see that or lose sleep over me.”

Sherlock halted and fixated his friend, looking for signs of dishonesty or rejection, yet finding nothing but sincere concern. Even now, John was more worried about Sherlock being uncomfortable than about his own tarnished health. _Ever the good doctor_.

Whenever Sherlock had been sick as a grown-up, he had been completely alone. Whenever his transport fell ill and he was confined to his rooms, alone with his thoughts, nothing to console him; those were the only occasions Sherlock craved company. He always wished for someone to take care of him and guide him through the disposition, to sit by his bedside and coddle him as his mother used to when he was only a child with too much going on under his dark curls. Sherlock then usually cursed his mind for being too weak to fight off this sentimentality and fruitless wishes because, of course, no one ever showed up to look after him. Until a certain ex-army doctor limped into his life.

Sherlock had noticed it the second John had stepped into the lab at Bart’s: the overwhelming and soul-devouring loneliness. He had known in that very moment that no one had ever taken care of John either. That he had probably lain in a hospital bed, recovering from a wound sustained while protecting others, all by himself, forsaken. He had read his need for companionship, for a purpose, for a home, as clearly as if it had been written on the man’s forehead in neon letters. And he had seen how close the doctor was to contravening his core values and ending the misery he deemed his existence.

An echo of the same sense of responsibility Sherlock had experienced all those years before rang in his chest. He would never let John fight sickness or injury or anything the world might inflict on him alone ever again. Not, if there was any other way.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, unwaveringly.

“Sherlock—,” John began his attempt to object but Sherlock cut him off with an adamantine stare.

“I. am. not. leaving.” To corroborate his words, he climbed back into bed, pulled his blanket up to his waist and crossed his arms, pouting.

“Right. Fine,” John shrugged and Sherlock was almost certain that he heard a little chuckle accompanying his words, as his friend slid back under the covers.

 

***

 

John threw up two more times that night, his empty stomach regurgitating nothing but gastric juice. In an aftermath of shaking limbs and sweat-soaked pyjamas, he barely conquered the few steps back from the bathroom before his body could collapse beneath him. With every passing minute, Sherlock grew more worried and frustrated by his own inability to help him. John couldn’t drink even the smallest amounts of water without his body pumping it right out again. His gaze became fuzzy and unfocused, the few words he spoke were unintelligible. Sherlock tentatively reached out to the man next to him and placed his slender fingers on John’s forehead; he was burning up.

“You run a fever,” Sherlock said, his voice thick with concern. That someone as tough and sturdy as John could be knocked out by some stupid microorganisms was just not right.

“Hm, hand’s cold,” John murmured with eyes half-closed, being drawn to a dreamless exhausted unconsciousness.

“Oh, sorry.” Sherlock quickly retreated but John frowned and quickly added: “No, s’nice.”

As the younger man’s pale hand returned to his skin, John’s face relaxed again. His eyes slid closed completely and a soft satisfied bumbling vibrated in his throat. The fact that he was able to alleviate John's discomfort relieved Sherlock immensely. He adjusted his own figure to a more comfortable position, now sitting beside his friend with crossed legs and his sheets wrapped around his shoulders. He cooled John’s forehead, switching hands whenever their body temperatures aligned, and watched as John drifted back and forth between sleeping and waking. Slowly, pale sunlight crept into the bedroom.

“What’re you humming?” John finally asked barely audibly, prying his eyes open with strenuous effort and groggily fixating Sherlock. Under his gaze, Sherlock stopped his mind from studying John’s endearing features in the faint light of the rising day. Humming? He? Had he really? Quickly, he tried to identify the melody still lingering on his lips. _Oh_. At the realization, his cheeks turned pink.

“Your Song, Elton John,” he said, embarrassment tinting his voice. “My mother always used to sing to me whenever I couldn’t sleep, no matter how old I was, whether I was sick or just agitated or scared or sad—.” His voice trailed off, stumbling over the memories. Forcefully pulling his thoughts back from that path, Sherlock rolled his eyes in an attempt to disguise the emotion invading him and added: “She wasn’t one for traditional lullabies, always just sang me random songs she liked. Your Song was one of her favourites.”

“I like it, too. It’s a good song,” John approved and gave Sherlock a warm smile that calmed his nerves. It was one of the puzzling talents of John Watson; When Sherlock’s mind was tearing at him, galloping in a thousand different directions, John could steady him. With a single smile, one softly spoken word, one firm but tender hand on his shoulder, John Watson could anchor him even in the greatest of storms. He was solid and constant and safe.

“ _It's a little bit funny this feeling inside, I'm not one of those who can easily hide_ ,“ John began to sing gently, more as to remind himself of the lyrics. Sherlock loved hearing John sing; his voice was rich and extraordinarily expressive as if music unlocked something deep inside of him that was usually not allowed to see the light of day. More times than he cared to count, Sherlock had listened to John crooning songs to himself while making tea or breaking into song under the shower when he thought no one could hear him. Every time, an unfamiliar sensation spread in Sherlock’s body, sailing on his bloodstream to even the remotest of his shores.

Listening to John now, his voice still muffled by sleep and fever, didn’t fail to evoke this response either. Without his permission, Sherlock’s lips curled into a cherishing smile.

“ _I don't have much money but boy if I did I'd buy a big house where we both could live_ ,” John continued, reverberating Sherlock’s smile even brighter upon meeting the pallid eyes hovering above him. He radiated a warmth that had nothing to do with the fever. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

“ _If I was a sculptor, but then again, no, or a man who makes potions in a traveling show, I know it's not much but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song and this one's for you_.” John’s voice became more confident and Sherlock no longer fought the adoration that shone from his face.

“ _And you can tell everybody this is your song_ ,” he cautiously joined John in the chorus, their voices intertwining into an enchanting harmony. Goosebumps spread from the base of his skull.

“ _It may be quite simple but now that it's done I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is while you're in the world._ ”

 

***

 

Only two hours later, the flu got hold of Sherlock, as well, although not as badly; he only threw up once and slumbered next to the still feverish John for the remainder of the day. As the sun began to set again and Sherlock trudged off to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he found a get-well-soon note from Mrs. Hudson next to a tray loaded with salty crackers, herbal tea, and a pot of chicken soup; obviously a substitute for her usual afternoon tea and biscuits. Sherlock resolved to thank her next time he saw her—if he remembered to. He reheated the soup, made them each a cup of herbal tea, and carried everything back to the bedroom. This being-a-good-friend-thing became easier by the minute.

As Sherlock lay in bed, comfortably nestled in his blankets only inches away from John, who had his laptop on his knees, streaming a Netflix documentary, both nibbling crackers and sipping tea, he couldn’t help but think that being sick wasn’t that bad after all. As long as it meant spending the day with John like this, he would even condone the vomiting.

Sherlock shot John a quick glance, glad to see that their extensive nap had returned the colour to his cheeks, and smiled slightly as John met his gaze. They would take care of each other now. They were not alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've been sick with the stomach flu myself a few weeks back, I decided to use my misery as inspiration :D  
> Hope you liked it! :) As always: Concrit is welcomed and, of course, comments and kudos are, too! <3


	5. John & Sherlock's Chapter: Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weeks leading up to Christmas in 221B Baker Street entail some emotional revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :)
> 
> This Christmas chapter is basically just cute little fluff pieces crammed into one chapter :D For those of you waiting for some angst again: It's coming, just be patient! Enjoy the fluff while it lasts :D
> 
> This chapter was majorly inspired by itsalwaysyou_jw's chapter [A Beautiful Sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784428/chapters/39940509) of the Advent Calendar Challenge.  
> All of her works are just phenomenal, so please check them out and leave lots of kudos and comments <3 <3 <3
> 
> This chapter's background music:  
> [Glasgow Love Theme from Love, Actually](https://open.spotify.com/track/6XT8WrFtjzUVbYJcmZuaiJ?si=YskyGI1hTjSWKHCTQEPKhQ)
> 
> (For those of you who have never watched Love, Actually: You should! Otherwise the last part of this chapter doesn't really make much sense)

# John & Sherlock’s Chapter: Christmas Eve

_“If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”_

Love, Actually

 

_December 9_

“It’s Rosie’s first Christmas, everything has to be perfect!” Sherlock barked and slammed the baking tray full of burned gingerbread men on the kitchen counter. Rosie gave a displeased sound at the loud noise.

“It’s alright, Sherlock, calm down.” John rested his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm and felt the tension beneath the expensive silvery shirt he was wearing. He had suspected that Sherlock wanted to make the holidays special for him and Rosie this year. It was their first Christmas with Mary gone and bittersweet nostalgia followed John around like a shadow everywhere he went. The thought that Rosie’s mother wouldn’t be there to watch her daughter unwrap her first Christmas present or catch snowflakes in her pink little hand haunted him constantly.

At the same time, John hadn’t been enjoying the days leading up to Christmas this much, well, ever. Living with Sherlock and Rosie was constant chaos but it was _his_ chaos, his own hurricane of excitement and exhaustion and bliss. If there hadn’t been his nagging conscience reminding him that he was a widower and a single father and still not done mourning Mary’s death.

He appreciated the fact that Sherlock didn’t broach the subject but simply acknowledged that John was a little quiet and sad at times. Instead, he seemed determined to be less of a Grinch than usual and entertained the teething Rosie as well as he could to take John’s mind off of his grief.

But obviously, John had underestimated the obsessive amount of thought and energy Sherlock would put into this endeavour. His fault, actually. When was the last time Sherlock had done anything half-heartedly?

“She won’t remember that we let a batch of cookies burn,” John added to sooth Sherlock’s thoughts and picked Rosie up from her chair. “Will you, bumblebee?” he cooed and placed a kiss on her chubby little cheek. Rosie squealed and grabbed the air in an attempt to reach out to Sherlock.

“Yes, but there’ll be pictures she’ll look at when she’s older. And early impressions are incredibly powerful in shaping children’s bonds and attitudes, John,” Sherlock replied with a frustrated and openly worried tone before he closed the gap between them with one elegant step and let Rosie grip one of his slender fingers.

This seemed to be the little girl’s favourite position; being secured in her father’s steady arms while holding on to Sherlock so tight that the three of them were closely conjoined; an inseparable unit, protecting and being protected all at once.

John’s heart tingled at the thought that Sherlock went to such lengths to ensure that his little daughter was happy. The way the two had bonded over the past few months astounded and enthused him. At times, he was almost jealous when he watched them play or snuggle on the sofa. Yesterday, he had come home from his job at the clinic and found Sherlock kneeling in front of the tub, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, while Rosie splashed about happily in the water. At the sight, John had been convinced that his heart would burst. How could one body contain such enormous amounts of pure joy?

“You want to take pictures?” he asked through a bright smile and looked up to Sherlock.

“Yes, of course. It’s her first Christmas,” the taller man stated matter-of-factly.

“Well, then, we’ll just make new ones that are pretty enough to be photographed. There’s still dough left, no need to panic.”

“And this time no caroling while they’re still in the oven.”

“If I had known that caroling distracts you so much that you forget to watch the oven I wouldn’t have started in the first place,” John laughed and gave Sherlock a teasing poke.

 

_December 11_

“Jesus, this is the part I definitely could live without,” John sighed as they made their way through the crowd on Oxford Street, charged with several shopping bags which hampered their progressing considerably. In this turmoil of passing people, Sherlock didn’t even have to reduce his walking pace to match John’s shorter stride as usual since they both could only move at a snail’s pace.

“Now, we’ll just have to get the tree,” Sherlock replied, voice raised so John could hear him over the busy noise all around them. Despite the throng of Christmas shoppers that threatened to swallow them, Sherlock’s chest was filled with a warm glistening excitement at the thought of all the ornaments they had just picked out and the prospect of hanging them on a sturdy fir in their home. He hadn’t done this since early childhood, since Mycroft had impressed the foolishness and pointlessness of any kind of tradition upon him year after year after year. Then, John had entered his life and, with the steady fingers of the surgeon he was, began to extricate these splinters Sherlock’s older brother had dug into him over decades. They only came out one sharp piece at a time and left Sherlock bleeding crimson insecurity—but they came out. And John’s friendship filled the voids they left.

The tree they chose barely fit in the corner of the sitting room. It took the combined strength of both John and one of Sherlock’s homeless acquaintances to get it up the stairs, while the detective himself strolled idly behind, carrying the shopping bags and commenting on their suboptimal towing technique.

Decorating the tree was a lot more fun. The whole evening was spent in the warm glow of fairy lights, reflected by the growing number of golden and ruby ornaments spread over dark green needles. Rosie sat in her highchair, gnawing on her teething ring, and watched them carefully as they put the shiny balls up; John at the bottom half while Sherlock used his longer arms to reach the top branches. This distribution had not been agreed upon initially and the fact that John’s jumper always slid up to reveal a delicious piece of lightly tanned skin was almost enough to make Sherlock want to swap tasks. On the other hand, making fun of John for not being able to reach the top of the tree, no matter how much he stretched, was pretty entertaining, as well, and a lot less dangerous.

The final result definitely made up for all the inconveniences endured earlier. With Rosie cuddled up against him, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and examined the flat. Overall, it already resembled some of the pictures he had seen online but, surely, more could be done to prepare 221B for a perfect Christmas.

He could only imagine how badly John was missing Mary at this time of year—apparently, the holidays were especially depressing for people who had lost a family member or couldn’t be with them, according to some blog posts he had read. Now, that he knew that, the sadness that flickered over John’s face more frequently these days didn’t pose such a riddle to him anymore. Although it was still as painful to watch as ever.

So, cheering John up was Sherlock’s objective, no matter what it took. But Mary had been so right about him: John Watson would never consciously allow anyone to aid him in his grieving process. Hence, Sherlock had to cloak his aim. Doing all of this for Rosie’s sake was the perfect disguise since it was technically not a real lie. Additionally, it concealed the fact that Sherlock genuinely enjoyed the festive atmosphere their home radiated. It contained nothing of the mendacity he hated about most societal norms, it wasn’t a façade gilding a dysfunctional inside: the decorations were only a visualization of the sincere and all-embracing love that filled 221B Baker Street. Now, it shone from every Christmas ornament.

“Thank you for doing this,” John said softly as he sat down next to him, his voice thick with honest gratitude and a subtle knowing undertone that made Sherlock question the effectiveness of his Christmas ruse. While John’s deductive skills could never reach his own abilities, his emotional intelligence outweighed Sherlock’s thousandfold. _He is indeed pretty damn smart._

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s thigh in a tender motion, lingering. Every touch from his friend still set Sherlock’s nerves on fire, but over the past months he had become accustomed enough to it to prevent his muscles from twitching or tensing under John’s fingers—a reaction John seemed to interpret as disapproval every single time, leading him to end the contact immediately. If he only knew how much Sherlock craved these innocent brushes and squeezes and pats. Yes, if he only knew.

 

_December 16_

John first noticed it one afternoon when he came back from Tesco’s: the little green boughs hanging on the ceiling, only a few steps behind the glass doors connecting the kitchen to the sitting room. At the sight of it, he almost dropped the groceries. _What the hell?_ Since when did that mistletoe hang there? Had Sherlock put it up? Well, who else would have? Mrs. Hudson? She surely had been conspicuously quiet about their new living arrangements and maybe still held onto the misconception that he and Sherlock were a couple. Hanging mistletoe in their kitchen seemed like something she would find funny.

John called for his flatmate but no one answered. He had probably gone out for a walk with Rosie. Ever since she was teething, she was fussy almost all the time and long walks seemed to be the only thing calming her down. Still oddly irritated by the plant overhead, John began to unpack his shopping. Only minutes later, his assumption was confirmed by footsteps coming up the stairs, accompanied by Rosie’s giggles and babbling, answered by a deep velvety voice, as if in real conversation. Over these familiar sounds, John almost forgot his mistletoe-infused vexation.

Sherlock entered the sitting room with Rosie on his arm and greeted John blithely before starting to elaborate on the epiphany he had had on their walk about one of Lestrade’s current cases. He was about to hand John his daughter to rush to the yard when he met his eyes and stopped mid-sentence.

“Something wrong?” he asked, quickly scanning John who was standing in the kitchen, hands on his hips, brows furrowed. That he was upset was clearly visible for Sherlock but the source seemed unclear to the genius detective.

“Did you put up mistletoe?” John asked in a dangerously calm voice.

“Yes, obviously, two days ago. Did you only notice just now?” Sherlock replied with an amazed chuckle, not sounding the slightest bit embarrassed upon John’s enquiry.

“Why?”

“It’s a tradition.”

“Then you know that people are supposed to kiss when standing under it?” John raised his brows so high they almost touched the boughs hanging on the ceiling, menacingly. What kind of bloody joke was this?

“Yes,” Sherlock dragged out the word, diverting his gaze, tracking back his thought process, searching for something that had escaped him.

“Sherlock, there’s no one here but us. Who did you hang that up for?” John’s voice was harsh and his stomach clenched although he couldn’t quite tell if it was out of thrill or panic. When it came to Sherlock, John had noticed, the two were almost indistinguishable.

“Oh.” It was barely more than a puff of air escaping plush lips.

“Yeah, _oh_ is right. Now, could you please take it down?” John more demanded than asked, turning away before he changed his mind. Why did Sherlock always have to do things like these?

“I… I just thought… For Rosie,” Sherlock stammered sheepishly, “That’s not… I didn’t… You…”

“For Rosie? How’s Rosie going to kiss people under the mistletoe, Sherlock?” John asked exasperatedly and turned back around. Then, it hit him.

The mistletoe hung right over the place where her highchair was usually standing for breakfast. Sherlock hadn’t meant to force anything or play a cruel joke on him. He had just wanted Rosie to sit under the mistletoe, to get kisses, every morning. His heart slumped to his feet, the anger being superseded by guilt. He rubbed his face as if the motion could wipe away some of the tension.

“Sherlock,” John interrupted the other man’s confounded stuttering, trying to sound as placatory as he could. “I’m an arse, forget what I’ve said, okay?”

Sherlock met his gaze with those incredibly iridescent eyes, the expression on his face almost unbearably soft. John reached out to him and pulled him and Rosie closer until they all stood right beneath the boughs. He looked up to Sherlock and then the little plant, hanging so heavy with meaning. Then, he smiled apologetically and placed a loving kiss on Rosie’s forehead. Sherlock’s lips perked up in a satisfied grin before he followed suit and placed his on Rosie’s cheek. The little girl giggled happily, knowing she was so loved by both.

 

_December 19_

Less than one week to go and Sherlock felt quite confident with the results of his endeavour to enhance the Christmas spirit in 221B. There was, however, one thing that he still needed to do, one person still to include in the festivities.

On their usual afternoon stroll, he steered Rosie’s pushchair to the little bookshop two streets down. After a quick chat with the saleswoman, she disappeared in the back and returned moments later with a large-sized children’s book. Sherlock paid, wished her Happy Christmas and stepped back out into the chilly December air. He took Rosie two more rounds around the block until she was calm and sleepy.

When John returned from his shift at the clinic that evening, he found Sherlock and Rosie in her room upstairs. As he was climbing the stairs, he could already hear Sherlock’s baritone waving melodiously. He was sitting in the armchair they had put in for nightly feeding sessions, Rosie on his lap, a book opened in front of them.

“What are you reading?” John interrupted carefully as he entered the room.

“How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” Sherlock said and showed him the book’s cover. Upon John’s questioning glance, he added: “We went out and bought it when you were at work.”

“Okay,” John smiled and settled on the floor to his feet, “and you chose this one because it’s Christmas?”

Sherlock looked down at him, his features fogged with sorrow. The sight took John aback. What was there to be sad about?

“Not exactly. I mean, of course, it fits the season, but mostly I chose it… because it was Mary’s favourite as a child.”

At the mention of his late wife’s name, John felt a lump grow in his throat. They didn’t exactly avoid it but, in everyday conversation, she just didn’t come up that often. Come to think of it, that wasn’t what a grieving widower was supposed to do, was it?

“She told me last Christmas at my parents’ before you arrived,” Sherlock continued. “I thought it would be a nice way to… I don’t know… honour her, maybe. Let her be part of this. Remind Rosie of her mother.”

John’s eyes prickled with tears and, for once, he made no effort in fighting them. What Sherlock had done was incredibly thoughtful and, coming from the most self-absorbed person he knew, it was nothing less than a declaration of love, for him, for Rosie, for Mary. The two seemingly contradicting feelings that roamed his heart day and night came crashing down on him: missing Mary and loving Sherlock; being caught in the past and longing for a future. How was he supposed to keep all of this inside?

As John wiped his cheek where a rebellious drop had made its way across his skin, Sherlock looked deeply disturbed.

“John, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you sad. I shouldn’t have—,” he frantically began to apologize but John interrupted him by rising up on his knees and pulling him and Rosie into a tight embrace until he shut up.

Sherlock froze under the touch, overwhelmed by John being so close, by John crying, but forced himself to relax. He didn’t want to make John even more upset by thinking he had overstepped some stupid boundary with his hug. When John finally let go of him—mostly because Rosie began to squirm and whine in his tight grip—his eyes still shimmered wet but he smiled.

“So, good?” Sherlock asked, needing a definite affirmation that he hadn’t ruined Christmas with this idea of his.

“Yes, Sherlock, very good. Great. Perfect!” John laughed and wiped his face again before settling back down on the floor.

“Please, continue.”

 

 

_December 24_

“We’re down to _Home Alone_ or _Love, Actually_ ”, John said, scanning Netflix’s Christmas movie options once more.

“God, that kid looks annoying,” Sherlock snarled.

“ _Love, Actually_ , then.” John pressed play and settled himself comfortably next to Sherlock on the sofa. “Haven’t seen that one, either. Or any Christmas movie that came out later than the 90s, I think,” he chuckled and offered Sherlock the bowl with nibbles. Against his expectations, Sherlock grabbed a handful and began to chew cheerfully. This man never ceased to surprise hem. The mere fact that Sherlock was sitting here with him, watching a movie, could be regarded as a classic Christmas miracle. And if that wasn’t one, the fact that he hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum as John had invited Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, and Mycroft to their place for Christmas Day was definitely one. In hindsight, John was not quite sure if that had been one of his best ideas but at least that way the holidays would really feel authentic—including family drama and everything.

At first, Sherlock didn’t pay much attention to the movie. He was determined to limit his disapproving comments to a minimum in order to let John enjoy their new tradition but didn’t plan on actually following the plot with conscious thought. That was until a scene appeared on the screen which jolted his mind to full capacity: In what seemed to be a mansion or rather a filming set, a man and a woman were moving against a fake marble pillar in more than suggestive movements, although fully dressed. The bloke couldn’t be older than his late twenties but even the age gap didn’t reduce the uncanny resemblance his features bore to the man sitting right next to Sherlock on the sofa.

“That guy looks exactly like you!” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself, praying that, at least, John would mistake the adoration in his voice for mockery.

“No, he doesn’t,” John quickly objected although the lie didn’t sound very convincing. That bloke actually could have been his twin brother as far as he could tell. He was sure that, fifteen years ago, he and that actor would have been nearly indistinguishable.

“Do you need glasses, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock teased and shoved his shoulder into John’s.

John’s face flushed crimson, almost matching the colour of the stockings on the mantel. His embarrassment didn’t exactly diminish as another guy with a headset came into sight and asked the girl to take her shirt and bra off. John had very much liked to bury his face in his hands as the blond man in the movie began to massage his partner’s breasts awkwardly.

This was just great. He had only wanted a nice quiet evening with Sherlock, watching a movie and maybe nibbling some more gingerbread men, but, of course, he had to pick the one film that apparently featured porn starring what looked like a younger version of himself. What was the universe trying to punish him for?

Obviously, his karma was worse than he had thought since, in his next scene, the doppelganger was almost completely naked.

“I’ll never get that picture out of my head again!” Sherlock roared with laughter, only spurred on by John’s embarrassment. His amusement, however, didn’t deter him from memorizing every single detail about the body on the screen, wondering if John looked anything like him. From that moment on, he followed the film with much more enthusiasm.

But it was not only the naked John-look-alike that drew Sherlock into the movie, now. Some of the scenes were genuinely funny, the score was beautiful, and the message it conveyed, too, appealed to him—yet, he still tried to keep up an unmoved expression. John didn’t need to know that he actually enjoyed this.

John felt Sherlock relax on the sofa next to him as the movie progressed. From time to time, he would tilt his head in thought or fidget a little but, overall, he seemed quite content. John fought a grin creeping up on his lips at Sherlock’s fruitless attempts to look cool and disinterested. _That git._ He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future.

The movie headed towards its emotional climax and Sherlock tried hard not to show the realization the story evoked in him. There were so many kinds of love, not only romantic: between parents and their children, between friends, between siblings (although that one was tricky; Sherlock could write a book about it… or a whole library full of them). And every kind of love was valid and good and precious. That was a beautiful thought, a reassuring one. Because he no longer needed to define his feelings for John Watson. It was love, plain and simple.

They had said it before. Never like that, never directly. They had squeezed Mary into the space between them as a buffer, used her to make stating it easier, this ancient truth engraved in their bones: Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson. John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes. Or he once had. Before everything had been twisted and broken between them.

The end credits started playing and John turned off the telly, readying himself to get up. Sherlock didn’t move.

“John, you once said… Do you… I mean… Do you still lo—,” his voice trailed off, letting the last syllable hang in the air, satiated with doubt and the weight of past mistakes. He couldn’t bear looking at John while he was so vulnerable.

A warm hand was placed on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, giving all the reassurance Sherlock needed.

“Of course, I still do. And I always will. Now, come on, let’s go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my attempt at switching POVs throughout the chapter and I'm not really sure if I'll ever do that again. Let me know what you think! :)
> 
> I hope you find the thought of Sherlock and John watching a movie with a young Martin Freeman starring in it just as hilarious as I did :D


	6. Sherlock's Chapter: Tipsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remind me once again why I have to go to this party,” Sherlock said as he emerged from the bedroom and buttoned up his aubergine shirt. “We’ve already spent Christmas with those people.”
> 
> “Because Greg invited us and I promised we’d show up,” John replied. “Besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of falling asleep on the sofa by 10 pm. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. I just want to go out and feel young again, for one night, Sherlock. Lately, all I’ve been thinking about is nappies and teething and if Rosie should’ve started to walk by now. Dear God, I just want one night off, just getting a little drunk and talk to adults about adult stuff and be a little reckless and silly. So, can you, just for this one night, have a few drinks with me and chat with people without complaining? For me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest readers,
> 
> Have I told you lately that I love you? :) The support and praise this community offers have really knocked my socks off, so please, please, please keep reading and commenting! 
> 
> This chapter is set on New Year's Eve and involves John and Sherlock getting a little drunk. There will be drinking games and dancing- beware of the clichés! :D  
> It is also one where listening to the song provided is firmly recommended (if you're not into electro at all, just skip it. The lyrics are included and really say everything you need to know).  
> I'm not completely happy with how this turned out. Maybe I'll give this scenario another go in a one-shot, with a more satisfying course of events. But I think it's still a mediocre fun little piece--leading up to the inevitable angsty episode that needs to follow this much fluff! So, stay tuned :)
> 
> The song our boys are dancing to:  
> [Zedd & Foxes, Clarity](https://youtu.be/IxxstCcJlsc)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Tipsy

_If our love is tragedy,_  
_Why are you my remedy?_  
_If our love’s insanity,_  
_Why are you my clarity?_

Foxes, Clarity

 

“Remind me once again why I have to go to this _party_ ,” Sherlock said, spitting the word like a curse, as he emerged from the bedroom and buttoned up his aubergine shirt. “We’ve already spent Christmas with those people.”

“Because Greg invited us and I promised we’d show up,” John replied and checked his hair in the mirror above the sink. He, too, was wearing a button-down shirt and a pair of jeans Sherlock was particularly fond of. That man aged like a fine wine. “Besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of falling asleep on the sofa by 10 pm. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. I just want to go out and feel young again, for one night, Sherlock. Lately, all I’ve been thinking about is nappies and teething and if Rosie should’ve started to walk by now. Dear God, I just want one night off, just getting a little drunk and talk to adults about adult stuff and be a little reckless and silly. So, can you, just for this one night, have a few drinks with me and chat with people without complaining? For me?”

_Anything for you, John. Everything for you._

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes, making sure to let his tone convey the amounts of self-sacrifice this accommodating required.

“Oh, and Sherlock, do me a favour and call Greg by his actual name, will you? There’ll be other friends of his and I don’t want him to be embarrassed.”

Sherlock leaned against the door frame and grinned mischievously. “You do realize you just handed me the perfect reason to call him anything but Greg all night, don’t you?”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“Maybe I could even use girls’ names.”

John finally turned around. “ _Sherlock_.”

“Fine, I’ll be nice,” Sherlock said with a sigh and made his way to the landing to grab his coat from the hook.

“Thank you. This will be fun, I promise,” John said as he put on his jacket.

Sherlock turned up his collar and scuttled down the stairs. “I highly doubt it but since you insist on it, there’s no point in fighting, I guess.”

“Now you got it,” John’s amused voice followed him out on the street.

 

***

 

There was an alarming number of people at Lestrade’s— _at least 15_ —, most of them already jingled. Sherlock recognized a few faces from Scotland Yard but was pleased to see that neither Donovan nor Anderson was anywhere to be found. He presented Lestrade— _Greg_ —with the bottle of wine John had bought as a thank-you gift and let the grinning DI even pull him into an awkward half-hug before he followed him into the sitting room.

“It’s all laid-back. No dress code, no fancy drinks, only nibbles; like the good old days at uni, you know,” Greg said and patted Sherlock’s shoulder before heading back to the door to greet some more guests.

Sherlock took a look around. Music was filling the air; something he had heard before on the radio or while stalking John’s Spotify account, though he couldn’t name the song right now. Small groups of people were scattered all over the room and the adjoining kitchen, all chatting vividly. Oh God, he needed a drink. As if summoned by this thought, John appeared with two beers. He handed Sherlock one with an encouraging grin. “Cheers!”

Sherlock took a sip and tried to keep a straight face, unsuccessfully as John’s laughter proved.

“Do you even actually like beer?” John asked.

“Not really, no.”

“Then why did we only drink beer on my stag night?”

“It was the easiest beverage to calculate,” Sherlock said. “And it’s… what men drink on such occasions, isn’t it?”

“Wait a second, I’ll get you something else,” John chuckled and made his way back to the table that functioned as a bar for the night.

Sherlock stayed where he was, a bit lost surrounded by all those strangers, until Stella Hopkins approached him together with a red-haired man at about Sherlock’s height she introduced as her friend Marcus. His remarkably symmetric features paired with a strong jawline and bright brown eyes would probably be considered attractive, Sherlock thought. What gained his attention, however, was the odd mixture of amusement and nonchalant boredom that Marcus radiated. And he just laughed at one of the deductions that slipped Sherlock’s nervous lips.

“Stella warned me about you,” he said in honest delight. “This is gonna be fun.”

The three of them had just started a surprisingly pleasant conversation when John came back, carrying his beer—or rather the one Sherlock had tasted—in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. “Try this,” he said and handed Sherlock the drink.

“It’s… pink.”

“It’s vodka with a bit of lemon juice and raspberry lemonade,” John replied with a hint of insecurity but Sherlock smiled shyly.

“I like raspberries,” he said and took a sip. The sparkling liquid tingled his tongue. He could barely taste the alcohol against the fresh sweetness of the lemonade. John couldn’t have chosen a better drink.

“I know.” John licked his lips as he watched Sherlock drink, waiting for his judgement. This habit of his never ceased to confuse Sherlock. Did John even know that his tongue often slipped out like this when he looked at him? At the sight, Sherlock’s skin began to prickle as if his blood had been carbonated as well. He gave John an approving nod and diverted his gaze back to Stella and Marcus.

45 minutes into the conversation, Greg joined them with Molly in tow. Among those familiar faces, Sherlock began to relax a little. Then again, it might have been the vodka. His second cup of John’s mixture was already half-empty and a cosy warmth saturated his insides.

“Careful there, Sherlock. You may not taste the vodka but it’s still in there,” John teased as he peered into Sherlock’s cup. “I don’t want to start the new year by holding your hair while you barf your brains out. We’ve had enough of that already this month.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at him but grabbed a handful of crisps Greg offered him instead of taking another sip.

“He holds your hair when you throw up?” Marcus asked amused and positioned himself next to Sherlock. Even his alcohol-fogged brain could easily detect the signs of flirtation he displayed.

“If this is supposed to feel like a real uni party, we should play something, like _Never have I ever_ ,” Stella suggested enthusiastically, her cheeks already a little flushed from the drink in her hand.

“What?” Sherlock asked, flustered. Him playing games with people apart from Mycroft usually resulted in catastrophes.

“Drinking game. You state something that you’ve never done in your life and anyone who has done it has to drink,” explained John.

“And what’s the point in that?”

“It’s fun,” said Stella and tugged at Greg’s sleeve to move the group to a couple of chairs around the sofa.

“And you get to know people’s secrets,” Marcus added with a wink and sat down on the floor next to Sherlock’s chair.

“And you have to tell the truth,” Greg added. “Sherlock can function as our very own polygraph, so: no cheating.”

Sherlock frowned at him but Greg just grinned and slumped down on the sofa.

“John, Greg, get a real drink. It’s not fair if you’re only drinking beer while the rest of us is having booze,” giggled Stella and Sherlock bit his lips to suppress the comment that already lay on his tongue. He really didn’t want to rub someone off the wrong way. John would be so mad at him if he behaved badly tonight. And… he wanted to attend a party like this at least once without being asked to leave because he upset or insulted anyone by accident. In his few years at university, he had never managed that, no matter how hard he had tried.

John sat down on his other side and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, once again magically sensing what Sherlock needed at this exact moment.

While Greg got up to fetch some drinks for John and himself, Stella tried to convince others to participate as well. A curvy blonde with heavy make-up that introduced herself as Esther and her friend, a caramel-skinned woman— _Indian or Pakistani origins_ —named Tara joined them.

“I’ll start,” Stella said as soon as everyone was settled. “Never have I ever broken the law and got away with it.” She giggled again. “And no, I’m not going to arrest anyone tonight, so, be honest!”

Esther, Marcus, Molly, John, and Sherlock raised their glasses to everyone’s entertainment.

Greg was next: “Never have I ever kissed someone of the same sex.”

A couple of people cheered as sips were taken again: Esther, Marcus, and…

“John?!” Sherlock blurted out in surprise, his brain too weighed down by vodka to stop him. Molly and Greg exchanged a half-concerned, half-amused look.

“I was in the military, guys. We got terribly bored between missions,” John said confidently and shrugged with a grin.

“Never have I ever had a one night stand,” said Molly. Marcus, Greg, Stella, John, and Tara drank.

“Are all of the questions going to be sex-related?” Sherlock asked John under his breath.

“A majority, I guess,” John replied and lenient blue eyes wandered over him. “You don’t have to play if you’re uncomfortable with this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just shook his head. He wouldn’t ruin this. And maybe the game would reveal other interesting facts about John. That alone was reason enough to stay.

Gradually, everyone became giddy and frolic, discussing their revelations—all except for Sherlock who hadn’t taken a sip since the very first statement. He had never done anything that even remotely resembled sexual contact except those awkward kisses with Janine and, in hindsight, those had been a terrible waste. It couldn’t take the others much longer to notice how little he could participate in this.

“Never have I ever send nudes,” said Tara and this time Sherlock hesitantly raised his cup again. Somehow the lemonade tasted at lot bitterer this time as his vodka-bathed brain tried to fight back hurtful memories. John glanced at him again, though Sherlock wasn’t sure if out of curiosity or because he sensed his discomfort.

“Sherlock, you’re next,” said Greg before John could ask any follow-up questions, not completely disguising the gloating in his voice. Molly seemed to notice, too, and nudged him with her elbow.

“Never have I ever,” Sherlock started, unsure how to end the sentence. After all, the possibilities were diverse. “Never have I ever… been caught making out with someone?” Molly gave him an encouraging nod. Phew, that seemed to work. Marcus, Stella, Greg, and Tara drank.

“Never have I ever left home with nothing but a sheet on,” John said, barely able to hold back the laughter bubbling up in his throat, as Sherlock was the only one to raise his glass. Molly and Greg had, of course, heard that story before, but the rest stared at Sherlock in disbelief until he felt his cheeks heat up. John told them about their visit at Buckingham Palace, without any of the more delicate elements, of course, making everyone squeal with laughter. The way John laid out the incident made Sherlock relive this glorious morning in every glistening detail: How they had giggled on the expensive couch and teased Mycroft, how Sherlock had stolen the ashtray simply to make John smile. Something loosened in his chest and the jollity that filled their circle finally found its way into Sherlock’s belly. He joined in the laughter.

Over the next few rounds, Sherlock got the distinct impression that John’s statements were particularly aimed at making him drink. He never stated anything that would embarrass Sherlock all too much, never revealing anything about his ignorance concerning sex. But more often than not, Sherlock was the only one drinking when it was John’s turn. The other participants rarely managed to include Sherlock, although Marcus seemed eager to try, growing visibly confused with every added piece of information—or rather lack thereof.

Sherlock was secretly glad that he could avoid most of the drinking during the game. Even with a nourished and rested transport, his tolerance for alcohol seemed to be much lower than everyone else’s. And he was far from sobering up since John made sure to replace his empty cup with a full one every half hour or so. Every time he got up from his chair next to Sherlock, Marcus would seize the opportunity and strike up a conversation, obviously trying to make up for the lack of information the game offered. In his obvious interest in him paired with the disregard of his less polite comments, he reminded Sherlock of Janine. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

When it was his turn again, Marcus said: “Never have I ever fantasized about someone in this room.” He gave Sherlock a suggestive look and took a sip.

It wasn’t the first time someone aggressively flirted with Sherlock but somehow tonight it neither irritated nor confused him—not because Marcus was objectively a handsome and amiable bloke but because John drew demonstratively closer to him every time he overheard their conversation. Sherlock adored this inclination to protectiveness and was, therefore, careful not to discourage Marcus as to not remove the object of John’s jealousy.

“Wait, is that allowed,” Molly asked, “stating something false and then drinking yourself?”

Marcus shrugged. “Why not?” He fixated his fellow players in the circle with a grin. “Well, I’m waiting.”

Except for Tara, everyone raised their drinks in different grades of embarrassment. Sherlock felt John’s eyes burning on his skin as they both lowered their cups again. His body temperature must have jumped up several degrees at the thought that John had fantasized about someone sitting here with them, too. Then again, there was no reason for it. Probably John was just thinking about Molly or Stella—even Esther or Tara. But maybe, _maybe_ …

“3 minutes to midnight,” someone announced and everyone jumped to their feet before Sherlock could finish this intriguing thought. Glasses of sparkling wine for toasting were passed around as all guests gathered in the sitting room. Sherlock, too, rose and joined the others. Marcus was trying to position himself next to him but John gave Sherlock a glass and Marcus a disapproving look and then stayed so close to him that their unoccupied hands almost touched.

A flash of panic—or excitement—struck Sherlock’s brain at the sudden realization that people usually kissed the second the new year began. But John wouldn’t, would he? Would he turn around and kiss Stella? And what was Sherlock supposed to do? Before he could calculate the chances for either scenario, everyone started counting down from ten.

_“10, 9, 8,…_ ” Sherlock cursed the delicious drink John had mixed for him. Soberly, his brain would have figured this out in less than a second.

“ _7, 6, 5, 4,…”_ If he tried to kiss John now and he rejected him, everyone would see and Sherlock would have to drown himself in the Thames or something. If John would, however, return the kiss, their first intimate contact would be a meaningless gesture observed by a dozen strangers. Both not really pleasant options.

“ _3, 2, 1_.” The sound of New Year’s cheers and glasses clinking together clogged the room as John and Sherlock stared at each other. Some version of _Old Lang Syne_ began to blast from the speakers.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock,” John said, his voice so quiet that Sherlock doubted anyone but him could hear it. Warm fingers wrapped around his wrist and gave it a little squeeze. Once more, John knew exactly what Sherlock needed.

“Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock replied, trying to make it sound as sincere and affectionate as he could.

 

***

 

The majority of guests vanished shortly after midnight, leaving only their initial group of players and three others as two o’clock approached. Sherlock had got hold of the best spot on the sofa and drowsily watched John talk to Greg at the bar. Every once in a while, John shot Sherlock a quick glance in order to, as he suspected, make sure Marcus stayed clear of his territory. The thought made Sherlock’s lips curl up as his eyes gradually drifted closed.

“Come on, we’re going dancing,” John said, appearing out of thin air next to Sherlock and startling him back into consciousness. He was grinning from ear to ear and a tinge of pink coloured his cheeks. Sherlock could suddenly clearly imagine what he must have been like at uni, bursting with enthusiasm and an undeniable zest for life. Somewhere along the years, between war and wear-out, so much of that youthful energy had been lost. Now that Sherlock caught a glimpse of it again, just like he had when he and John had chased down the cabbie on their very first night together, he had the urge to preserve it at any cost. He wanted John to be like this, happy and dynamic and overflowing with life, every day.

“Dancing?” His tongue dragged the words out lazily, heavy with alcohol.

“Yeah, in a club. You like dancing.” John gave him another one of his encouraging smiles.

“That is not dancing,” Sherlock disagreed, rather to fulfil John’s expectations than actively disliking the idea.

“There’s music and you move to it. I’d call that dancing.”

Before Sherlock could object any further, John grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. Somehow, those drinks John had offered him continuously all night seemed to heighten Sherlock’s touch perception even further. From where John’s fingers were wrapped around his own, a tingling made his way across his skin in electric waves. Sherlock wobbled a little with the thrilling sensation but John seemed to ascribe it to his level of intoxication and steadied him by putting his arm around Sherlock’s waist. That didn’t exactly help.

“Alright there?” John asked with a half-concerned giggle, not entirely able to fix his eyes on Sherlock’s. He was buzzed, that was for sure. Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle as memories from the last time they had been this drunk together passed in front of his inner eye. The way John’s inhibitions came crumbling down when he drank was almost tempting enough to spice up John’s tea every now and then.

“Oh, I’m alright, better than alright. I am great.”

 

***

 

The club they ended up in was everything Sherlock had expected it to be: loud, crowded, dark, and hot. The bass hammering from the speakers welcomed them in a wild embrace as soon as they stepped through the door. Sherlock felt it echo in his body like a second pulse. The air was saturated with sweat and perfume and alcohol, forming a dizzying fog that coated his lungs. People were moving on the dancefloor, swaying like a single being to the electrifying rhythm.

In a distant corner of Sherlock’s mind, an alarm was activated at the sight of all the boozed strangers. Yet, the alcohol in his own bloodstream rendered him splendidly careless. The sirens didn’t ring loud enough to drown out the music and the warning lights flashing before his eyes were at once assimilated by the beams of colour dancing across the room.

The little group made their way to the main floor and John grabbed Sherlock’s hand again, trailing him through the crowd until they found a spot where they all could move somewhat freely. Almost involuntarily, Sherlock set his feet and shoulders in motion to the throbbing beat. The song wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as the classical pieces he usually preferred but there was something urgent and untamed about it and Sherlock felt his limbs tense and relax in rhythmic response to it. This was exactly what he loved about dancing—how his body reacted to music without his brain interfering.

For a few minutes, or half an hour, he lost himself in the intoxicating sensation of his body taking control. He only casually noticed that all but Molly and Greg left to get drinks or relocate to another dance floor.

John, too, was still moving next to him but Sherlock hardly recognized him. When it came to ballroom dancing, his friend was less than talented. Even with Sherlock’s tutoring, he had barely managed to handle his wedding waltz. Now, his hips were shifting in small little jerks and circles as if they were formed for this sole purpose. He had unbuttoned his shirt, showing the white vest beneath that clang to his pectorals. Sherlock watched in utter fascination as John’s hands came up to smooth out his mussed-up hair and he wished they would still be playing that drinking game because now he knew exactly what to say: _Never have I ever seen anything that sexy._

One inch at a time, Sherlock moved closer, hoping that John would ascribe it to the lack of space around them. As the bass became especially intense, John’s eyes slid closed, completely indulging in the vibrations the music sent through the sole of their feet directly into every distant corner of their bodies. The motion and the humid heat of the room send little drops of sweat down Sherlock’s spine and his curls stuck to his forehead. Other bodies were pressing against his own occasionally but one was John’s and that was all he perceived.

As John opened his eyes again, they met Sherlock’s with such fierceness that he forgot to breathe for several seconds. He angled his body so that he danced chest-to-chest with Sherlock now. Puzzled, Sherlock diverted his gaze; A few feet away, Molly and Greg were dancing in even closer proximity than he and John, Molly’s arms resting on the DI’s neck.

With a sudden realization that moulded his lips into a perfect circle, Sherlock remembered that both of them had affirmed the fantasizing-about-someone-in-the-room-statement, too. Regarding Molly, that hadn’t surprised him—everyone knew how obsessed she was with Sherlock—but, now, he suspected that he had missed something significant there.

He looked back at John who had followed his gaze. His eyebrows rose suggestively before he leaned into Sherlock and all but yelled in his ear: “About time! He’d been pining for her for years now.”

For a few minutes, Sherlock watched his two friends dance with something like envy in his chest while trying not to infringe on John’s space too much. He knew that John would never allow him this close. That, however, didn’t prevent him from giving him an ardent look every time his mind slackened the reins holding his gaze fixed on anything but John.

The beat changed again, settling into something less frantic, and a woman’s voice began to sing: _“High dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life. Fight fear for the selfish pain. It was worth it every time. Hold still right before we crash 'cause we both know how this ends. Our clock ticks till it breaks your glass and I drown in you again.”_

John obviously knew the song and sang along with almost comically exaggerated passion, fixating Sherlock who was unable to withstand the ensnaring sight: “ _You are the piece of me_ _I wish I didn’t need_ , _chasing relentlessly_ , _still fight and I don’t know why! If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love’s insanity, why are you my clarity?”_

Sherlock blinked at him rapidly, halting in his movements. The masses pulsated around him, Sherlock being the only steady rock in a storm-lashed ocean. Elbows and shoulders poked into him, threatening the fragile balance his body still offered. What was John doing? Why was he singing at him? Did he even register what words he hurled at Sherlock right here on the dancefloor? Or was he simply so utterly drunk that he just chanted anything he recognized?

But John didn’t divert his gaze and reached for Sherlock’s hand, feather-light fingers entangling. The sensation made Sherlock shiver and freed him from his paralysation.

As the less energetic verse took over again, John slowly swayed against him, letting his body follow the rhythm, eyes closed and still mouthing the text: “ _Walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends. It cuts deep through our ground and makes us forget all common sense. Don’t speak as I try to leave ‘cause we both know what we’ll choose. If you pull then I push too deep and I’ll fall right back to you.”_

John opened his eyes again, their blue mixing with the lights around them to a captivating mélange of colour. There was nothing clouding their burning stare that drilled into Sherlock’s innermost being, as he sang once more, not exaggerated but desperately earnest: “ _You are the piece of me_ _I wish I didn’t need_ , _chasing relentlessly_ , _still fight and I don’t know why.”_

Even burdened with alcohol, Sherlock’s mind managed to slow down the seconds. He needed to remember this moment, imprint it on the walls of his skull, catalogue and file every single detail, let nothing escape his memory.

The chorus began again and Sherlock’s lips mirrored John’s as he mouthed along, the lyrics already burned into every fibre of his conscience: “ _If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love’s insanity, why are you my clarity?”_

John’s face lit up at the sight and Sherlock knew that he would never need anything ever again if he could just have this moment for eternity, these few precious heartbeats in which John Watson looked at him like this.

Seconds stretched into a lifetime as the two men rocked back and forth, conjoined only by their fingers and years of longing. The beat spiralled into a frenzy, a choir echoing in the distance, and John grabbed his other hand. Hot jolts of electricity spread from the skin he touched through Sherlock’s limbs. He was sure that red marks would remain where John’s body bordered on his. The bass dropped and John raised their intertwined fingers up into the air, animating Sherlock to move along with him. He gave in to his wishes. How could he not?

As the chorus set on again, Sherlock all but screamed the lyrics with John, wishing this night would never end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope all of you who ship Mystrade won't rip my head off :D As much as I love that ship, I just couldn't resist a little Mollstrade in this setting, just because I can't get Lestrade's reaction to Molly's glorious Christmas outfit in ASIB out of my head--I mean, his eyes literally popped out! :D 
> 
> I've not written anything Mystrade-concerned but, if any of you encourage me to, I'll give it a go! :)
> 
> As always: Concrit is welcomed, so please, feel free to comment on anything that bothers you in any way! Your feedback means so much to me!
> 
> Lots of love <3 <3 <3


	7. John's Chapter: Snow Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air was crisp and smelled of snow as they entered Regent’s Park. John walked next to Sherlock who steered the pushchair to the right on the sandy footpath that would lead them over the York Bridge and on the Inner Circle. Rosie sat on John’s shoulders and squealed with glee as Sherlock reached up to grab the tiny gloved hand she was stretching out at him. As had so often been the case over the past few weeks, John felt his heart almost burst with love. He smiled brightly and let the warmth saturate his insides, safeguarding him against the chill that tried to soak through his winter coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Here we go again :) For your information (and in order to mentally prepare you): This is the last fluffy chapter for a while. Bumpy road ahead for our boys! So, for all of you, who enjoy some pretty heavy angst: Your wishes are about to come true in the next chapter. It will be up shortly after this one because it's already half-finished, so stay tuned :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Phillip Phillips, Gone Gone Gone](https://youtu.be/oozQ4yV__Vw)

# John’s Chapter: Snow Season

_You're my back bone, you're my cornerstone._  
_You're my crutch when my legs stop moving._  
_You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart._  
_You're the pokes that I've always needed._  
_Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating._  
_Like a drum, my heart never stops beating_  
_For you._

Phillip Phillips, Gone Gone Gone.

 

The last few days, a heavy rain had hung over London, making it almost impossible to leave the flat with Rosie, and it had begun to show: She was constantly torn between energetically crawling around 221B, raising herself to her feet on the coffee table and tugging at everything her little hands could reach, and whining or crying at the top of her lungs. Those days were hard to bear—especially when one was viciously hungover.

As much fun as they had had, John regretted every single drop of alcohol he had consumed the next morning. His thumping head and dried out mouth reminded him all the more why he didn’t usually go out like this anymore. And his tolerance must’ve declined considerably since his partying days; he could hardly remember anything at all. There were just shreds of conversation, images, and sensations scattered about his brain—some of them so absurd that he was sure he must’ve dreamed them. John tried to piece them back together but they just frazzled at the seams and slipped from his grasp. The mental effort made him nauseous.

Sherlock’s state wasn’t any better. He trudged into the kitchen on bare feet when John had just made coffee, his curls in a mess and skin even paler than usual. Going by the pained expression on his face as John described his alcohol-induced amnesia, his headache was just as bad as John’s.

That day John would have had welcomed the dark clouds and the soothing sound of rain drops drumming on the pavement with open arms if it hadn’t been for a fuzzy Rosie. She barely stopped crying to catch her breath. At every piercing sob, John’s head threatened to burst. He was incredibly grateful when Sherlock volunteered to take her upstairs and play with her in her room, leaving John lying on the couch in a skin that felt itchy and too tight for his limbs. A cold shower and more strong coffee (let alone the pain killer he took desperately) brought relief and numbed the sharp pain at his temples into a diffuse throbbing. His conscience nagged him because of how valiantly Sherlock handled Rosie all by himself although he had asked repeatedly if he should take over. Every time, Sherlock sent him back to the sitting room with an almost irritated swish of hands. As they both slipped into fresh pyjamas and then their bed that night, John resolved to make it up to him.

The next morning, they woke to a pale sun stretching her fingers over the room and John almost jumped out of bed. His body had recovered and craved even the smallest amount of natural light. A grin spread across his face. Finally, they could go out, get some fresh air and rid their shoulders of the dust that had settled on them. Next to him, Sherlock watched him with half-closed eyes, a small smile caressing his lips. John would never get used to the sheer beauty of a sleepy Sherlock Holmes. He quickly diverted his gaze and escaped to the bathroom.

After breakfast, they wrapped themselves and Rosie up in their warmest winter clothes and stepped out into the street. Frost glistened on the few cars parked on Baker Street. The air was crisp and smelled of snow as they entered Regent’s Park. John walked next to Sherlock who steered the pushchair to the right on the sandy footpath that would lead them over the York Bridge and on the Inner Circle. Rosie sat on John’s shoulders and squealed with glee as Sherlock reached up to grab the tiny gloved hand she was stretching out at him. As had so often been the case over the past few weeks, John felt his heart almost burst with love. He smiled brightly and let the warmth saturate his insides, safeguarding him against the chill that tried to soak through his winter coat.

They made their usual route, passing Queen Mary’s Rose Gardens and the Open Air Theatre before following the banks of the Boating Lake. John knew that Sherlock had been utterly annoyed at first because Rosie seemed to need an awful lot of walks and fresh air to be content and calm. He always complained that it cost so much time to take her outside; time he could spend working on cases or experimenting while she occupied herself in the playpen. But like so many other little aspects of the life they shared, things had changed over the past two months since John had moved back into 221B Baker Street. Sherlock not only accompanied him on his walks with Rosie now but took her out for a stroll on his own almost every day, having found that fresh air and a little exercise—besides chasing criminals—boosted his mental capacities. John was careful not to rub the fact in Sherlock’s face that he was on the top of his game since he was forced to eat, sleep, and move regularly; it might have resulted in a spiteful hunger strike just to prove a point, and John thought that the tantrums of one child were enough to worry about.

The Boating Lake in Regent’s Park mirrored the icy grey colour of the sky above, every once in a while lighting up like a puddle of quicksilver when a beam of sunlight hit its surface. John drank the cold air as if parched, letting it cleanse his lungs and soul. Sherlock’s tall figure sauntered gracefully next to him, his long legs allowing for a slower pace while still keeping up with John.

“Thanks again for taking care of her yesterday,” John said, apparently startling Sherlock out of his own thoughts.

“Nothing to thank me for.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a murmur.

“Well, of course, it is. Without you, I would’ve been lost,” John said sincerely and smiled at him until Sherlock reluctantly met his eyes. After two months, he was still so adorably unsure of himself, still worrying if there was a place in Rosie’s life for him. John’s chest clenched a little at the thought.

“I’m just trying to do my part,” Sherlock said humbly, lowering his eyes. Today they matched the colour of the sky in an almost mythical manner. Or maybe it was rather the sky that tried to imitate those otherworldly irises, John contemplated.

“And you’re doing great, honestly, Sherlock. She adores you.” _I adore you_. “It’s almost unfair how much calmer she is around you. I can never get her to go to sleep as quickly as you can. I suppose it’s your voice.”

“Am I that soporific?” Sherlock said with a sarcastic grin spreading across his features.

“No, you git,” John laughed. “I mean it’s deep and pacifying and melodious. That’d calm anybody.” His voice evaporated in the cold air, leaving his cheeks hot with embarrassment. _Get a grip, Watson._ John wet his treacherous lips and occupied his hands by lifting Rosie off his shoulders.

“You’re getting a little heavy, bumblebee. Want to go back in the pushchair? Yes, you do.”

They strolled on, only the random syllables Rosie strung together filling the air.

As they reached the playground, the sun had retreated entirely. John shot worrying glances up to the clouds that gradually changed to a darker shade of grey. Just as Rosie sat on the toddler swings, the sky opened up and it began to snow. Thick fluffy flakes waltzed to an unheard melody and settled on every surface, hushing the world with their soft embrace. Sherlock took Rosie in his arms as she tried to catch the snowflakes with her hands and then her tongue. He let one icy crystal land on his bare finger where it melted and Rosie’s eyes grew big in awe. John just stood there and watched his daughter laugh and cheer while the snowflakes slowly nestled in Sherlock’s hair. The little white patches offered an enchanting contrast on his dark curls and John could hardly fathom how stunningly, how devastatingly beautiful he was. As Sherlock’s eyes met his gaze, his brightly beaming smile shifted into something calmer but not less happy. John would have given his life to keep these two, the people who occupied every last nook of his heart, as happy and content as they were in this moment. Gravitationally pulled to the center of his universe, John stepped closer, barely resisting the urge to bury his hands in Sherlock’s snow-covered hair and pull him close, closer. And he wanted to tell him. Tell him, how his life was nothing without him in it, how he cherished every precious moment with him, how they were together now and he would never let anything come between them again.

“We should take shelter somewhere,” was the only thing that came out.

 

***

 

They sat in the Boathouse Café and watched as the world was slowly painted white. Rosie’s attention was completely captured by the snow flurry outside while John and Sherlock warmed their frozen fingers around cups of hot chocolate. The comforting flavour coating John’s mouth, he took in the sight of his little family. Could this day get any better? Half-way through their drinks, the last snowflakes made their way down and the skies eventually cleared again. Rosie seemed disappointed and shifted in her seat. Sherlock pulled her on his lap, dripping words onto her blonde curls as sweet as the hot chocolate. The sun breaking through the clouds outside could barely shine half as bright as John’s smile.

Sherlock’s phone beeped in his coat pocket and, without much thought, John reached over and got it.

“It’s Greg, he might have a case for us.”

“Tell him, we’re busy,” Sherlock replied and began to entertain Rosie with her favourite plush elephant.

John chuckled in disbelief and texted Greg to come by 221B sometime tomorrow. Sherlock postponing a case to play with Rosie was almost too good to be true. He took another sip of his chocolate and admired the white cloak covering the earth, sparkling like a myriad of diamonds as the sun reached out for it.

As beautiful as the snow covering the landscape looked, it made for a cumbersome walk home. The pushchair’s wheels kept getting stuck in the wet mixture of melting snow and gravel so that Sherlock had to carry Rosie the whole way. The little girl seemed to like this option better, anyway, as the jolly string of incoherent sounds bubbling from her mouth proved.

“It can only be days until her first word,” Sherlock remarked.

“If she says _dada_ to you and not me, I think I’ll break down in tears,” John teased and shot him a grin.

“You’re her dad, John, she knows that,” Sherlock said in a serious tone, unresponsive to John’s joke.

“Does she though? Sometimes I get the impression that I’m the one spending least time with her, with work and cases and everything,” John replied, voicing something that aggrieved his conscience for a while now.

“Quit your job, then.”

“What?” John forgot to keep walking and Sherlock halted, as well. “I can’t quit my job, Sherlock. There’s rent to pay and food to buy and… I can’t quit.”

“Money’s not an issue,” Sherlock dismissed his objections.

“Yeah, maybe not for you,” John said with pursed lips. Naturally, the posh boy didn’t strain his mind with as trivial a problem as having bills to pay.

“No, John, I mean…,” Sherlock quickly added at the sight of John’s annoyance. “Clients offer to pay me all the time and I mostly refuse because I don’t depend on it but if you wanted to quit your job it would be no problem to provide a stable income that way. You are indispensable for the work and should be reimbursed accordingly. I’m sure it would allow for a comfortable living.”

“I don’t help you with cases for the money, Sherlock.”

“I know. I’m just saying… If you wanted to quit the job at the clinic, for Rosie’s sake, I mean. We could manage.” Sherlock shot him a shy smile and John’s thoughts shook off their defensiveness.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock’s smile deepened and the tenderness of it tugged at something deep inside of John.

“I’ll… think about it, Sherlock. It’s a nice offer, really.” He finally got his feet to move again and they resumed their walk in quietude. John was grateful for the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. Sherlock was one of the few people with whom mutual silence wasn’t uncomfortable and he loved that about him. His offer had genuinely moved John although he doubted that that had been Sherlock’s intention. He was just being practical, following his code of logic, as usual, John assumed. But, still… It wasn’t the mere thought that Sherlock was willing to stoop to taking money for his services but rather the gesture of appreciation implied in it that filled John’s insides with warm, honey-golden contentment. Every time Sherlock made some kind of commitment, somehow recognized John’s role in his life, he couldn’t help but be excited. It was almost pathetic how much he craved this sense of approval. Had he been in the same situation with any other human being, the depth of their connection would be unquestionable. But with Sherlock you could never be sure, could you?

John relied on Sherlock more than on anyone else—as a partner on cases, as a friend, as Rosie’s godfather, as a flatmate, a _home_. And now even as his only source of income? John tried to fight down the doubt that threatened to tarnish the shimmering gem inside of him. He had given over so many parts of himself to Sherlock already. The renewed dependence he had developed suddenly seemed dangerous. Almost everything in his life, every good thing, every sense of structure and belonging came down to Sherlock. And he knew exactly how it felt when this cornerstone was taken away. His life had collapsed on him before. Wasn’t it stupid, even plain irresponsible, to give in to the same impulses again?

“Oh no,” Sherlock’s voice pierced the air, his alarmed tone jerking John to a halt. He anticipated a revelation about a case or even a masked figure jumping out of the bushes, ready to attack them.

“What?”

“I left Rosie’s cuddly toy in the café,” Sherlock said, eyes wide with horror, and handed Rosie over to John. “I’ll go and get it. Be right back,” he added and dashed away before John could as much as chuckle.

He adjusted his grip on Rosie and tugged her pushchair a little to the side so other people could pass more easily while they waited for Sherlock’s return. They hadn’t walked more than a few hundred meters; This shouldn’t take Sherlock and his abnormally long legs too long to cover. John rocked Rosie in his arm, on the one hand, to keep her calm, on the other, to keep himself warm, and watched the passers-by. Even under these conditions, a lot of people were out—families, strollers, runners. One of them, a brunette a couple of years younger than John in black leggings and a pink jacket, slowed down a few feet away from them. She took out one of her earbuds and flashed John a smile.

“Are you two stranded?” she asked kindly and stopped, panting slightly.

“No, just waiting for someone, thank you,” John said, reciprocating her smile politely.

“Well, isn’t she a cutie?” The stranger looked at Rosie and stepped closer. She was pretty, her cheeks pink from frost and the physical strain of running.

“The cutest,” John affirmed and felt his smile deepen. His hunting instinct took over.

“And you’re waiting for her mother?” she asked, the innocent question the first step in a game John was all too familiar with.

“No, she’s—” _an ex-assassin whose dark past finally got her killed_ “—not in the picture anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her response displayed the exactly right amount of compassion and relief. This was almost too easy.

“Oh, it’s alright as long as I’ve got little Rosie here,” John replied and gave his daughter a kiss. Using her like this was wrong, he knew, but the opportunity was just too good to miss. He hadn’t flirted with anyone in ages. The fact hadn’t bothered him in the slightest but, now, old patterns were woven back into the silk he poured from his lips, like second nature.

“What a pretty name! Hi, Rosie. I’m Kristen.” She took Rosie’s tiny hand and shook it. Facing John again, she added: “And you are?”

“John. Pleased to meet you.”

A tall figure approached with hurried steps and came to a halt right next to him, splashing half-melted snow everywhere and waving a turquoise plush elephant. “I got it, John,” Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly, not even acknowledging the presence of a third party.

At the sight of the other man with the cuddly toy, Kristen’s features dropped although she tried her best to hide it.

“Sherlock, this is Kristen. Kristen, Sherlock,” John introduced them in a forcedly casual tone, as Rosie reached for her toy and Sherlock took her in his arms again.

“Oh, so you’re—“, Kristen began, eyeing Sherlock over.

“No, I’m—we are not a couple,” John quickly interjected. “Just flatmates.”

“With a baby?” she asked quizzically.

“Yeah, well, Rosie and I are kind of a package deal,” John replied with a nonchalant gesture. “And you can’t afford a flat in central London on a doctor’s salary alone.”

He could hear Sherlock’s eyes roll next to him but the mention of his job was an unerring manoeuvre. It didn’t fail him on Kristen, either. The smile finally returned to her face.

“Alright. Can I borrow your phone for a second?”

“Sure, why?” He handed over his phone, unlocked, well-knowing what would follow.

“So I can put my number in,” Kristen said while typing digits with swift fingers and smirking confidently. “Give me a call when you want someone to accompany you and Rosie on your next stroll.”

John took back his phone with a non-committal nod and felt his ego cheer somewhere behind his collarbone as Kristen put her headphones back on and jogged away.

A proud grin plastered on his face, John grabbed the pushchair and turned around. Sherlock was already several meters ahead of him, making his way home to Baker Street with determined strides and Rosie on his arm. Quickly, John followed him.


	8. Sherlock's Chapter: High Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After witnessing John flirt with some random woman at the park, Sherlock tries to calm himself down, wanting to avoid confrontation by all means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people still reading this,
> 
> Get ready for some heavy angst. For those of you who are not into this kinda stuff: I'm so sorry but the next few chapters are gonna be an emotional trainwreck. For those of you who enjoy this kinda stuff: Have fun and remember--I warned you! 
> 
> This chapter's song:  
> [Ron Pope, One Grain of Sand](https://open.spotify.com/track/3yqJGfvXtPZLiWHVeLWtm8?si=O_bNfn6WTRytVP8vwhN_Qw)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: High Tide

_What can I say, what can I do_  
_To show you all the ways_  
_My heart is slowly shattering for you?_

_I don’t wanna hold you if you wanna go_  
_And I’m not gonna make you feel love if you don’t._  
_I would rather learn_  
_what it feels like to burn_  
_Than feel nothing at all._

Ron Pope, One Grain of Sand.

 

When they entered 221B, Sherlock still rolled the situation over in his mind. The acute sting he felt every time he saw John paying this kind of attention to someone else had not yet vanished and he stomped up the stairs to their flat a little more violently than necessary. John followed him with Rosie on his arm whose cheeks were flushed from the cold January air. She leaned her head against her father’s shoulder and gave a small exhausted sigh, all but falling asleep.

“I’m going to put her down for a nap,” said John as he carefully peeled the toddler from her snowsuit and doffed his own jacket. Sherlock only responded with a hum, already stretched out on the sofa. When John came back fifteen minutes later, he hadn’t moved an inch. Sherlock’s mind still replayed their encounter with the woman on the street in excruciating detail over and over again. Anger and frustration sizzled in his guts, making him slightly nauseous.

“Amazing how fresh air tires her out,” John chuckled as he went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Sherlock didn’t respond and only listened with half an ear while John babbled on: “We should take her out like this every day as long as the weather stays this lovely. Soon enough that bloody rain will keep us cooped in here all day again. Molly told me about this really nice little park around her corner. We could take Rosie there tomorrow and leave her with Molly for a bit after, get some shopping done and maybe pick up take-away from that Indian place you like on our way back.”

Sherlock still lay there, eyes closed, and showed no signs he had heard him when John came over to bring him a cup of tea. “Sherlock?”

He didn’t want to face John now, not while he was still fighting the urge to throw a jealous fit, so he kept perfectly still. He heard John click his tongue in slight irritation as Sherlock didn’t respond or bother to shift his long, slender body to make room on the sofa for him before he finally placed Sherlock’s cup on the coffee table and retreated to his own armchair. John picked up something to read— _red top, going by the light rustling sound of the paper_. Sherlock relaxed a little, knowing he would not be disturbed for at least an hour or so, and started wandering around his mind palace.

As often over the past months, _or years?,_ he ended up in a suite on the top floor, wide and bathed in warm sunlight, falling through several floor-to-ceiling windows on the right-hand side. A giant dark green sofa, with an absurd number of fluffy cushions in all shapes and sizes spread upon it, stood in the middle of the room, facing the wall opposite the windows. The niftily patterned ivory wallpaper barely shone through between all the photographs, tables, sketches, and diagrams pinned to the walls. The only other piece of furniture was a double bed with luxurious sheets nestled into a nook to his right. Sherlock stepped into the room. _John’s room_.

Every piece of information, every shred of data he had ever acquired about his flatmate was stored between these four walls. Sherlock approached the vast accumulation of documents and pinned additional images to it— _1)_ _the despicable woman from the park, 2) the way John had looked at him when snowflakes had settled on his dark curls_ —before he slumped down on the sofa and examined the overall picture. Sometimes he would spend hours in this room, sprawled on the soft cushions and staring at John’s face echoing from everywhere, going over all that he had learned about the past years, contemplating John Watson and his contradictory behaviour patterns. Every time he thought he knew where their road was headed, John took a different exit than anticipated. This man still posed a complete puzzle to him. And today, he frustrated him.

Sherlock knew that spending time in John’s room seldom brought great new insights but it still was his favourite place in the mind palace. Here, he could enjoy John’s company, replay his most treasured memories, even though he knew that he was dwelling on a dream that might never actually come true. There were days when he still believed, when he reviewed his material and could almost bring himself to think that it would take just a few more weeks, a few more months. On these days, he would spend hours upon hours in this room and count his blessings to remain patient. Then, there were days like this; days when Sherlock wanted to cry and scream and break everything he could get his hands on; days when his frustration threatened to burst out of him, hurling sharp broken fragments of himself like pieces of shrapnel, and wound everyone around him; days when he longed for the hollowness of a good dosage only to stop feeling. _This damn sentiment._

At these low points, John’s room provided a safe haven, a space to calm down. He could shut himself away until he gained control again, to make sure he didn’t spill all this bile on the people he loved. Today, Sherlock knew, he would have drowned in his agony if it wasn’t for the calming memories in this suite. He got up from the sofa, and there he was: John, the version that existed only in his mind palace, standing in the middle of the room, the smile on his lips just as soft as the ridiculous jumper he was wearing. Sherlock approached him and inhaled deeply. Olfactory memories were usually the most potent to relax him. The scent of John’s shampoo mixed with the smoky aroma of Whiskey.

And they were back in Baker Street, behind closed curtains, a sweet violin tune playing. John’s brows were now slightly puckered in concentration while the alcohol gently clouded his eyes. He had insisted on them having a drink to loosen them up a little and reduce the awkwardness of the situation. Sherlock laid his hand in Mind-John’s and desperately recalled the sensation of the other man’s fingers resting on his waist as they moved through the waltz. On the last few notes, John bent him back, Sherlock’s weight not troubling his strong arms. His face hovering over Sherlock’s displayed equal parts of pride and bashfulness.

Sherlock took another deep breath, drawing in the smell of John. His chest ached in unfulfilled desire as he made them dance, again and again, unable to disengage from the agonizingly beautiful picture of John’s face shining down on him. His mind gradually overwrote parts of the memory with images and sensations from New Year’s Eve—the way John had looked at him on the dancefloor, eyes filled with fiery determination, his body pressed against Sherlock’s—until the illusion was so perfect Sherlock could almost taste it on his tongue. He had quite a bit of experience in this area, by now: distorting his own memories into daydreams, molding them into something sweeter.

Slowly, he felt his nervous energy trickle away. The sting in his chest, however, didn’t vanish but softened to the numb dragging pain right below his sternum Sherlock was already all too familiar with. He sensed a sad smile flicker over his lips as he realized how omnipresent this sensation had been throughout the years of silent pining. The familiarity was oddly reassuring. This pain he knew, this pain he could manage.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice pierced through his conscience and Sherlock felt a warm hand slightly joggle his shoulder. For a second, he considered simply ignoring John—but what was the point? He opened his eyes to find John standing next to the sofa, his familiar features smiling down at him through the dim light of the one lamp still burning. “I’m going to bed now, it’s getting late.”

“Where’s Rosie?”

“I’ve put her to bed like four hours ago,” John chuckled. “You basically were out for the whole day. Thinking ‘bout something particular?”

Sherlock just shrugged and raised his upper body from the sofa. Usually, they would both go to bed at the same time, since neither of them would fall into deep sleep anyway unless they lay next to each other. Sherlock would never admit it but the adoption of John’s regular sleeping pattern had significantly improved his own well-being, just as the fact that John made sure he ate enough. Tonight, however, a strange resistance stirred in Sherlock at the thought of laying down next to him.

“You comin’?” John had already made his way across the sitting room, grabbed the baby monitor and moved to turn off the lights, but Sherlock remained frozen. Within him, a battle was fought: If he refused to go to bed now, John would most certainly want to know why, and Sherlock definitely didn’t feel like discussing his momentary emotional state. He had no case that would justify pulling an all-nighter nor an experiment that required his immediate attention. John knew that. On the other hand, the reluctance to share a bed with John tonight only grew the more he thought about it. Over the past months, this ritual had always given him a sense of security and intimacy he craved with every fibre of his being. He loved to fall asleep to John’s steady breathing, knowing that a stretch of his hand was all it took to touch him—although he never did. But after their walk in the park today and the unpleasant encounter afterward, Sherlock’s resilience was wearing so very thin. The temptation of John’s warm body right beside him—so close, yet so far—would get the best of him tonight, Sherlock was sure. And that would ruin everything.

“Something wrong?” John asked and once again displayed his startling ability to sense Sherlock’s distress.

“I’m _fine_.” Sherlock’s response didn’t sound as caustic as he intended to. He was about to add another snappy comment which usually prompted his flatmate to just roll his eyes and drop the subject when John’s phone audibly vibrated in his pocket. _Text message. Too late for friends or colleagues. Blink considerably longer than usual, suggests embarrassment._ “Who’s texting you?”

“No one.” _Capillaries widened, sudden head movement, clearly lying. He knows. None of current acquaintances justify behaviour, unless…_

“Aren’t you supposed to wait three days to contact a woman after she’s given you her number?” Sherlock was tempted to smirk in sight of John’s obvious uneasiness but somehow the smile got stuck behind his lips. Instead, the stupid sting in his chest returned, now just as vigorous as at the park.

“Where’d you get that from? Men’s Health?” _So, he really texted the woman_. The sting in Sherlock’s chest deepened into a gash, bleeding hot venom.

“Seems a bit desperate, doesn’t it?”

“That’s really none of your business, Sherlock,” said John with raised eyebrows before he shook his head defensively and shifted to leave the sitting room, in hopes Sherlock would just let it go. He, of course, did not.

“I’m just saying that your dating life now affects more than just yourself. So, you should consider raising your standards. A materialistic bigot with a smoking habit and an obvious thing for single fathers might be an acceptable option for a quick shag if you’re in such a need for one, but highly unsuitable to have around a small child, don’t you think?”

“Sherlock—,“ warned John, cocking his head and glaring at him from under his brows, but the younger man could not keep the words fuelled by his own discontent and anger from bursting out in a fiery stream.

“Aren’t you getting a little old to chat up every single woman that happens to look at you? But, then, your choice of girlfriends never particularly spoke in your favour, did it? Except for Mary, that is, even though she was a professional murderer. At least, she wasn’t so agonizingly boring as the rest of your _conquests_. I expected that, after her, your standards would be raised but, apparently, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Sherlock, enough,” John said, his voice nothing more than a growl now.

“I know that ordinary men often tend to claim to be somewhat enslaved by their hormones to justify all kinds of stupid behaviour in pursuit of sexual intercourse but that you follow this alarming notion is really beneath you,” Sherlock kept spitting out. “I thought the aftermath of your little texting lapse with my sister would be enough to teach you a lesson. Or have you already forgotten how guilty you felt for cheating on Mary? I would’ve guessed that you’d think twice before making the same mistake again just because a half-pretty woman gave you her number.”

“This is not the same thing, Sherlock. Don’t you dare compare this to Mary!”

“How is it not? You once again let your fragile male ego or your insatiable libido jeopardize a relationship!”

“We are not a couple, Sherlock!” John roared, raising his fists and eyes to the ceiling as if he was trying to convince a stubborn God or the universe itself of his heterosexuality.

Sherlock snorted indignantly, his voice a poignant reflection of the hurt feelings that flooded his system: “And whose fault is that.” The words had slid off his tongue and dropped to the floor before he could catch them.

John blinked at him in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me perfectly,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly in hopes to conceal the frustration and discomfort this unfortunate slip had hurled at him. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

John eyed him for a second. Then, he let out a forced awkward laugh, dropping his head, before fixating Sherlock again. “Seriously, _what do you mean_?” His tone was demonstratively casual but the blue of his eyes darkened in vigilance. Sherlock could all but hear John’s mind switch into soldier mode in light of this dangerous terrain they had suddenly stepped on.

“I… just referred to the fact,” Sherlock began, although every single synapse screamed for him to _just shut up_ , “that you intentionally misinterpret every single aspect of our life together to avoid facing the uncomfortable truth about yourself.”

“And what would that be?”

Sherlock snorted exasperatedly at John’s attempt to feign ignorance. “I’ve always known about your attraction to danger and violence but I would never have taken you to be cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“You, leading me on like that, telling me you love me, dancing with me and then acting as if that’s nothing. Letting me back into your life just to leave me again for the first woman that comes along.”

“Leaving you? Don’t tell me you’re chiming in on this whole thing now, too. I cherish you, Sherlock, as a friend.” John’s voice, calm even now, made Sherlock’s stomach turn. “And it’s not like I am the one that faked his death and disappeared for two years.”

A white wall of fury blinded Sherlock at his words. After all this time, after witnessing the nightmares that still tormented him, John still hadn’t understood. He still didn’t get what Sherlock had done for him.

“I’ve died for _you_ , John,” he bellowed, his frustration and desperation finally breaking through the surface. “I’ve dismantled an internationally operating criminal network for you. Two years of my life I spent away from home, always on the run, never resting, never catching my breath. You might be a soldier but not even you can imagine the horrors I put myself through— _for your safety_! I was captured, tortured, slit upon and let hanging like a pig to bleed out. I’ve _killed_ people. For you.”

Sherlock turned his back on John and submerged his hands in his own dark curls, violently pulling, as if the sharp pain on his scalp could release some of the pressure that threatened to choke him from the inside. He pressed his eyes shut and, to his alarm, felt tears prickle on their corners. He said it. After years of stubborn silence, after burying the memories as deep as he could, he had smacked John right in the face with them. But what did it matter anyway? What did it matter now? Sooner or later, he would lose him again to some random woman.

When he turned back around, John had gone pale, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes fixed on a point to Sherlock’s right, carefully avoiding his gaze. He could not even stand to look at Sherlock anymore, could not even muster the decency to _look at him_ while he cut his heart out and threw it to his feet. Again, a wave of emotions flooded Sherlock’s system but this time scorching red anger prevailed. The words now spilled from his mouth in breakneck speed as always when his temper took over.

“I’ve risked my life for you every single day for months, making sure that none of Moriarty’s henchmen would try to use you as leverage against me. And after I finally succeeded, after I had gotten myself beaten and battered, I came back and you were gone. You had moved on without me. I know you suffered, I know I put you through hell but I never doubted that you would understand _why_ , once I could come back. But you– _you_ –were so caught up in the idea that I’d just run off to another little adventure and just didn’t want _you_ to tag along. That’s how little you thought of me.“

John’s chest was heaving now, his jaw clenched, eyes still not meeting Sherlock’s fiery stare. The other man’s obvious shock and discomfort woke a grim sense of triumph in Sherlock’s chest. He stepped closer, wanting to force John to look at him, to look him in the eyes and see what he had just destroyed between them.

“You could never see what I so clearly displayed. You didn’t want to,” he continued, his voice now lower but none the less dangerous. “Still, I stayed. I watched you with Mary and realized how much you needed her reassurance, her comfort. So, I encouraged you, even helped plan your wedding, all while every moment seeing you two together literally broke me over and over again. I stood in front of all the people we both care about and spilled my heart out after you had just vowed to love someone else for the rest of your life. Because I value your happiness above everything else. Because that’s what a good friend is _supposed to do_ , isn’t it?” Sherlock let out a pressed, high-pitched laugh and, finally, John looked at him.

“You could’ve told me, you know. Earlier. Before the wedding,” he said, struggling to maintain a neutral calm tone.

“And then what?!” Sherlock exclaimed against the humiliatingly deadpan man, ever the soldier, and jerked his head back. “You would’ve changed your mind? John _I’m-not-gay_ Watson?” he roared to the ceiling, arms raised now in utter frustration, before once again fixing his eyes on John.

“Your wife _lied_ to you, _betrayed_ you, _shot me in the chest_ , and, still, I tried everything to fix things between you, for your sake, and for the baby’s. I came back to life to make sure that she wouldn’t hurt you, for God’s sake! I actually died that night, you know that. Mary may have phoned the ambulance but her shot would still have been fatal. She couldn’t have known that I would claw my way back from the dead to you. Do you know why I told you she saved my life? Because I knew that you couldn’t make a choice between me and the woman pregnant with your child. How could you? And I was right: You went back to her, you forgave her. When Mary died to save me, I ripped myself apart. You couldn’t stand to be around me and I couldn’t stand to be someone you hated this much.” Sherlock’s anger drained from him in heated tears, leaving nothing but stale, vast blankness in his voice.

“Mary’s request to save you by putting myself in lethal danger came as a welcome excuse to just give in to the urge to destroy myself—because either way, there was nothing else I could do. If you wouldn’t come to save me, there was nothing left to live for, anyway. But you came. And I hoped again. That one day I could win back what we had lost along the way and in all the mess we have been through.”

“Sherlock, I—,” John began and slightly raised his hand but Sherlock winced at the movement and continued: “When you moved back in, brought Rosie with you, entrusted your child in my care, I finally felt whole again. Almost like when we first met. But better—because now there were two people living with me whom I care about so deeply. You seemed to heal so quickly in our presence, forgetting to wear your wedding ring, and you said you’d love—.” Tears choked Sherlock’s voice and he lifted his eyes from John again up to the ceiling, desperately trying to contain what little there was left to keep inside.

“But you still pretend that nothing between us has changed. We spend every day together, sleep in the same bed every night, we _raise a child_ together, and still, nothing has changed for you. Except for Mary, you haven’t been able to keep a woman around for more than two months since we met and still you cling so desperately to your _sexuality_ ,” he spat the word to the ground with as much venom as he could muster.

“Sherlock, enough.” John’s lips curled into the deadly half-smile he always displayed when he could barely keep from pouncing on someone. Sherlock was a long way from caring. He even hoped John would attack him, so he could feel his hands on him one last time. There wouldn’t be another opportunity to get this close to John. They were bearing down on an abyss neither of them would be able to climb back out of. Sherlock had shown his hand. There was no turning back now.

“I was so stupid to believe you would eventually come to terms with this situation. Because I did. I surrendered ages ago. I, the man who supposedly doesn’t even have a heart.” Sherlock’s voice was drenched in bitterness. He could taste it at the tip of his tongue like something rotting inside of him had finally reached his mouth and tainted everything he uttered.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me when you flirt with those women? The thought that you might actually fall in love with someone again, leave me again, take Rosie with you—I can’t bear it. I don’t know what else I have to do to prove that I am a worthy option for you, _that I can be something more_.”

John still fixated him and Sherlock believed he could tell the exact second all of his delusions crumbled, as something broke in his eyes, his jaw unclenched, all the tension left his body.

“But you don’t feel things like that.” John’s voice was barely audible. Sherlock had never seen him look this small.

“Not for anyone but you.”

Uncomfortable silence saturated the space between the two men, both diverting their gaze now. The world had suddenly gone mute and oddly void of air as they stood there, in their home which didn’t quite feel like a home anymore. Sherlock didn’t know if he could ever free himself from this sensation and move again until a distorted wailing sound from the baby monitor pierced the air. Their fight had obviously woken up Rosie.

John stirred first and raised his eyes to the ceiling where the little girl cried for attention. Hearing Rosie’s distress brought Sherlock back, as well. He drew in a sharp breath and gained control over his limbs. He had already taken several steps towards the stairs, carefully as if the shards of his last protective wall between them could actually cut his feet. Mumbling that he would look after Rosie, he froze once again as John’s voice cut through the dimly lit room: “No.” This one word was cold and commanding, encrusted with his natural military authority.

Sherlock’s head jerked back as if John had just slapped him across the face. He turned back around and looked at the older man, aware that every inch of his body was now radiating the hurt and heartbreak this last blow had caused him. John’s eyes met his with stony inexpressiveness. This was it. Without another word, Sherlock grabbed his coat from the hook and left the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this chapter cost me so much nerve, and I dare say that it is only the start of some real shit our boys have to work through :( But, of course, they'll make their way back to each other, rest assured! :) 
> 
> Sherlock's monologue is actually the thing that sparked this whole fic. It just kind of appeared to me one day and wanted to get onto (digital) paper. It was the first thing I've written in years (that's why I feel it is my worst chapter so far...) and I'm so glad I started again. You guys are amazing and I appreciate every single comment and kudos here! <3 <3 <3  
> So, please don't hate me for making my two favourite idiots fight :D The reconciliation will be worth all the angst and hurt, I promise!


	9. Sherlock's Chapter: Crashing Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pale moon stared back at Sherlock, ignorant of the hearts broken and lives destroyed beneath, unfeeling. God, how he envied it. He’d given everything to return to his numb existence, void of all the sentiment that this damned man had snuck into his heart. But the damage was done. This bell could not be un-rung. And Sherlock Holmes had a feeling, loving, aching heart now pounding in his chest. Making it stop called for radical measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :)
> 
> As promised: Your next dosage of suffering! :)
> 
> **WARNING:** This chapter features past abuse and drug usage (nothing explicit or graphic) as well as suicidal thoughts: If any of this triggers you, please take reasonable precautions before reading :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [AWOLNATION, Sail](https://youtu.be/tgIqecROs5M)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Crashing Waves

_Maybe I should cry for help._

_Maybe I should kill myself._

_Blame it on my ADD, baby._

 

AWOLNATION, Sail.

 

There was nothing left, not even tears. Everything was gone. Sherlock stormed outside and let the door snap closed behind him. The air was freezing now, attacking every inch of bare skin with needles as his legs carried him down Baker Street with no conscious destination. Yet, Sherlock didn’t even bother to button his coat. What was the point? Pain was all he was able to perceive at this point. It didn’t really matter whether it was mental or physical, did it? Pain remained pain.

And if he froze to death somewhere on these all too familiar streets it wouldn’t matter much, would it? He knew enough silent corners where no one would find him until his suffering was over. Or at least, where no one would stumble over his half-frozen body by accident. If someone actually made an effort to find him, there were people who could. But no one cared enough to go looking for him on a bleak January night, not anymore. Glorious images rose in front of his mind’s eye: a desperate John spotting him in an empty alley just in time, tending to his pale, cool figure with tears of regret in his eyes; John reviving him with his own body warmth, kissing life into lips blue from hypothermia. Sherlock wiped them off with a guttural howl that made two passers-by jump back with alarmed faces.

He turned into a less peopled street, craving solitude. _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._ It seemed ages ago that he had truly believed in this mindset. _No, friends protect people_ , John’s voice whispered in his ear, and Sherlock wanted to scream, to cry his name into the unforgiving night sky, and beg for his life back; the way it had been before John Watson, even if he could only have the cursed half-life between usage and rehab. Everything, anything, was better than this heartache that devoured his sanity with an insatiable appetite.

A pale moon stared back at him, ignorant of the hearts broken and lives destroyed beneath, unfeeling. God, how he envied it. He’d given everything to return to his numb existence, void of all the sentiment that this damned man had snuck into his heart. But the damage was done. This bell could not be un-rung. And Sherlock Holmes had a feeling, loving, aching heart now pounding in his chest. Making it stop called for radical measures.

Mycroft had warned him, had tried to protect him from this, even if Sherlock hated to admit it. _Don’t get involved._ Why hadn’t he listened? Why did he never listen? Every time Sherlock _felt_ , things ended in a catastrophe, a maelstrom of suffering, a capitulation to anything that stopped the anguish. First Victor, the boy that started it all, then…

It had been years since Sherlock last thought about it. Well, not quite. Ever since the Norfolk case, memories were crowding behind his forehead, pushing to the surface, singly piercing into his consciousness when he let his guards down. Now, with his defences scrunched to dust, everything threatened to come crashing down on him. Sherlock quickened his steps, falling into a half-run, and tried to ascribe his hammering heartbeat to the physical activity. His lungs stung as he blindly followed his legs wherever they would lead him. His feet drummed on the pavement wet from melted snow, but no matter how much he accelerated their rhythm, there was no escaping. You couldn’t outrun a tidal wave.

 

_Sherlock was fourteen and incredibly lonely. With books and Bunsen burners as his only company, he spent his days in endless experiments, in attempts to grasp the rules of the universe. These laws, unwritten and unbending, allowed for structure in a chaotic world, and Sherlock soaked them up like a sponge. He couldn’t wait to finally leave for University, a place where acquiring knowledge was the sole objective, but his parents wouldn’t let him go full time for at least two more years. Mycroft had left for London for this ominous job of his and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he missed him or not. His parents tried their best to keep him entertained, catering to his scientific enthusiasm. But, nonetheless, Sherlock was alone, so alone._

_They met at a lecture about astrophysics. His parents had allowed Sherlock to go by himself and stay at Mycroft’s new posh flat afterward. Among all of those scholars and older students, Sherlock should finally have felt some sense of belonging but the opposite was true; everyone eyed him over like he was the last thing anyone expected here. He made his way to a seat in the back to avoid their gazes. After Sherlock had interrupted the lecturer for the third time with a curious question, met by gradually less patient answers paired with irritated huffs, the person next to him gained his attention by muttering under their breath: “Don’t mind him. He’s just baffled ‘cause you’re smarter than him.”_

_Sherlock turned his head and looked at the stranger. He was in his early thirties, his friendly, grinning face framed by light brown hair that curled lightly on his forehead. His eyes behind oblong spectacles glistened with amusement. Sherlock shyly mirrored the smile, not quite sure how else to react to this unfamiliar praise._

_After the lecture, the stranger approached him once more, introducing himself as Dr. Alex Portman. Hesitantly, Sherlock shook his hand and gave his name, as well. Before he could as much as blink, they were wrapped up in a conversation about the lecturer’s obvious fallacies, then theoretical physics, then neurobiology, then Sherlock couldn’t remember what. As Sherlock looked at his watch, alarmed to see that Mycroft must’ve already been waiting for him some time, Alex gave him his address with a playful remark about Darwin, Hooker, and the long tradition of scientific pen pals. That night, Sherlock wrote his first letter, under his covers on Mycroft’s sofa._

_For months, the correspondence with Alex was Sherlock’s greatest pleasure. This exchange with someone who not only valued his intellect but him, Sherlock, as a person, was invigorating. Writing letters was so much easier than speaking to someone in person and Sherlock found himself opening up to Alex about all the sorrows that kept him up at night. Every response from his new friend was so heartfelt, so genuinely interested and caring, that days without one turned into millennia tormenting him with anticipation. Every scientific breakthrough, every philosophical paradox that passed Sherlock’s mind flowed to paper at once. Soon, every single thought was tinted with the colours of Alex._

_As the letters’ tone changed into something more delicate, more intimate, Sherlock willingly succumbed. Alex not only called him clever and smart and brilliant… he called him beautiful and gorgeous and stunning. Sherlock hadn’t known it before but he craved it, this sort of affection, this sort of attention from someone who saw past his façade. This was what love was supposed to feel like, wasn’t it? Because Alex told him. He told Sherlock that he loved him, every time he asked for pictures, every time he described what he wanted them to do when they met again. And Sherlock was convinced that he, too, felt the same. He longed to see Alex but weeks and months passed and something always seemed to get in the way._

_Then, Mycroft found out, one weekend when he was visiting to look after Sherlock while their parents were out of town. He was shocked. And Sherlock was furious. That night he left home with no intention to ever come back. With an address in his head, he made his way to London, all by himself. He wound up at Alex’s doorstep, just a boy with a backpack full of clothes and a heart full of promises. When he rang the doorbell and Alex opened, his face dropped to his feet._

_“Sherlock,” he breathed and half-shut the door again, “what are you doing here?”_

_“I… My brother… I wanted to see you,” Sherlock stammered but a woman’s voice, coming from somewhere inside the house, interrupted him. “Alex, baby, who is it?”_

_“No one,” Alex called over his shoulder. “Just some kid with a wrong address.” His voice lowered to a hiss again: “You can’t just show up here, Sherlock. What were you thinking?”_

_“But—”_

_“Go. Now.” The door shut in Sherlock’s face. Muted, carefree voices leaked out onto the steps as Sherlock stood there in the dark, dumbfounded. He felt tears of exhaustion and panic tingle at the corners of his eyes. He had been so sure that Alex would be delighted to see him. He had been so sure to be welcomed with open arms into a home where he was loved and cherished and wanted. But now, he began to wonder if anything Alex had written in his letters was actually true. He had never mentioned a woman living with him. A woman who called him “baby”._

_Disillusioned and with a sharp pain in his throat, Sherlock wandered back the dimly-lit streets he had come, got on the bus, and rode back to the station. It was already late and he hadn’t spent any second thought to the possibility that he couldn’t stay with Alex. Returning home was not an option either and he barely had enough money on him to stay at a hotel of any sorts. He was lost. Sherlock leaned against the stone wall, watching the trains enter and leave the station, and tears cascaded from his eyes in hot streams of desperation. He was lost in this world with no place to go and no one loved him, no one ever could. Something was wrong with him, a deeply-rooted defect that rendered him an unlovable monstrosity. He sank down to the floor, still weeping, and sat there for what could’ve been hours. As a scruffy girl barely older than him offered him something to make the aching stop he gave her his last bit of cash. The syringe piercing his skin didn't hurt nearly as much as his shattered heart..._

 

He needed some. Now. Gasping for breath, Sherlock jerked to a halt and looked around. He was standing on Vauxhall Bridge, the dark waters of the Thames gurgling beneath him. His whole body was aching, the icy air burning on his flushed face. He must’ve been running for at least half an hour to get here. Frantically, Sherlock padded himself down and let out a sigh of relief as he felt something in his coat pocket. He pulled out his phone and wallet. As if it had only waited for this clue, a nerve-wracking sequence of artificial sounds resounded throughout the dim glow of the lampposts and the phone’s screen lit up with one calamitous syllable: JOHN.

Sherlock stared at the ringing phone in his hand, his mind paralyzed. A strange sense of loss lingered in the air, as the ringtone finally died. Only seconds later, however, it rose from the dead again. Sherlock still made no effort to pick up. What was he supposed to say? The call ebbed away once more, followed by a text message:

 

_11:47_

**John:**

Sherlock, pick up.

 

Another call. This time Sherlock hit decline. What was John trying to achieve? He had made it very clear that he didn’t want Sherlock around him or Rosie. One word had sufficed.

 

_11:48_

**John:**

Don’t be stupid. It’s freezing cold outside. Please pick up.

 

The phone rang again, the sound an atrocious intrusion in the white noise of the nightly city. Sherlock didn’t even look at the screen this time. He was sure that reading the name again, that four precious letters that his world orbited around, would break him down entirely. Why would John torture him like this? Wasn’t it enough that he didn’t love Sherlock and never would, not the way Sherlock loved him at least? Was he trying to make Sherlock believe that he still cared even though every single one of his reactions had proven the opposite?

The buzzing and beeping drove him mad. With a dauntless swing, Sherlock sent his phone flying over the balustrade. It cut through the air, its last beeping sounds faint against the noise of the cars driving by, until it hit the surface of the Thames and sunk, silenced at last.

Alone with his thoughts again, Sherlock rummaged through his wallet, counting the cash. He usually didn’t carry a lot of money around and, tonight, he found only twenty pounds and some small change. In hindsight, throwing his phone away had been a bad idea. He could’ve traded it for drugs. _Stupid, stupid._

As his fingers scoured the mess of bills and receipts again for a hidden banknote, they got caught on a plain white piece of paper, folded twice, the creases already brittle from all the times it had been read. Sherlock’s throat hurt as he swallowed heavily. He hadn’t looked at this for a while: ever since the day they had watched Mary’s second video message. He had almost forgotten about it. But now, the pain of being rejected by John Watson was fresh and acute and it felt like the months between Molly handing him this note with Rosie on her arm and the violent falling out tonight had never happened. As if the bliss in between had only been a fever-fantasy dreamed up by his drugged brain, once again forging memories into something better.

Sherlock opened the note and stared down at John’s scribbled handwriting:

_You should've just stayed dead._

He wasn’t even angry at John anymore, just like he hadn’t been back then. John had every right to cast Sherlock as far away from him as possible. Who could ever care for someone this damaged? For someone who broke lives and happiness like a bull in a china shop? He had known on that fateful day as a teenager. Over twenty years later, it was still true: Sherlock Holmes was unlovable, an abnormality, a monstrosity with no place in this world.

Sherlock had climbed over the bannister before another thought could cross his mind. The deep dark waters beneath called for him in a low enchanting rhythm. Jumping into the Thames in January must be a painful death; drowning and freezing simultaneously. But what were organ failure and lack of oxygen against the mental agony he endured right now. Pain remained pain. He didn’t deserve the blissful ending of an overdose.

Behind him, a car stopped with screeching brakes—shouting voices—determined hands dragging him back over the balustrade. Sherlock’s head hit the pavement. Someone pinned him to the ground.

“Oi, mate, what’re you doin’?!”

Sherlock looked up at the man above him. For a second, just for the blink of an eye, he was sure to see John. He clenched his eyes closed. When he opened them again, the face above him had changed into a blond stranger. The ungentle collision of his head on the concrete let little white lights dance in front of his eyes but it also seemed to clear his mind.

Yeah, what was he doing? _Your life is not your own, Sherlock. Get your hands off it._ This was not okay. Had he learned nothing over the years? Hadn’t he caused enough pain already? If there was even the slightest chance that someone he cared for would have to suffer because of his weakness, then Sherlock had to stay strong. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, his parents, even Mycroft— _your loss would break my heart_. He owed them all so much. How could he do this to them? And if he found someone to sell him some, what difference would that make? _If you keep taking what you’re taking at the rate you’re taking it, you’ve got weeks._ Was death by instalments any less cruel to them than a brief jump or the shot of a gun? What could possibly justify the pain he’d cause all of them? Just because he couldn’t stand an existence without John? He was willing to die for them. Wasn’t it even more courageous to stay alive for them even if that entailed misery? Pain remained pain. But at least, this way, Sherlock stayed the only one it was inflicted on.

“Do you hear me?” the stranger asked and joggled his shoulders slightly without loosening his grasp. In their backs, other cars were honking impatiently.

“It’s… I’m alright. You can let go of me,” Sherlock finally breathed and, when the stranger did, he hesitantly came to his feet.

“Alright. You won’t try again? Do I need to call someone?” The man seemed trapped between his genuine concern and the waxing chorus of horns that urged him to move his car.

“It’s fine really. Thank you.”

Without giving his saviour the chance to say or do anything else, Sherlock turned on his heels and, once again, ran off into the night as fast as his numb body could carry him. He needed a safe place, now. A place where he could silently crumble into pieces until he found the strength to carry on.

Sherlock didn’t realize where his feet were guiding him until he reached the door. The sound of desperate fists on wood filled the silent night. Finally, someone opened. Sherlock all but collapsed on the doormat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think about Sherlock's abuse story! It just came to me in a single tear-drenched writing session and I couldn't include everything in my head in this chapter. I don't know if my approach to this subject is appropriate and, of course, I don't want it to be clichéd and hurtful for people who had to live through something like this. So, concrit is more than welcomed!
> 
> And I would be super interested if any of you have headcanons about John's note from TLD. It bothers me so much that we didn't get to see what it said so I included my own (brutal) version. Any other ideas? :)


	10. Sherlock's Chapter: Lifeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs a safe place to spend the night before he does something irreversibly stupid. He heads out to find the one person whom he's always trusted, even at his lowest points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dearest readers,
> 
> I've missed you! After a very unproductive weekend, I finally got to finish this chapter today. I hope you'll like it! :) As always, I am eager to hear your opinion, headcanons, concrit, thoughts, etc. etc. :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Welshly Army, Sanctuary](https://youtu.be/eYAQeV9Z00M)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Lifeline

 

_This is our sanctuary._  
_We can find shelter and peace._  
_You are, you are safe with me._

Welshly Army, Sanctuary.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Molly asked, eyes clouded with sleep. Her mussed hair lay on her shoulder in a loose braid and her arms tightly wrapped a dressing gown around her figure, the thin fabric with little ladybirds on it a futile barrier against the freezing cold leaking in.

“I… John… We fought… I screamed… Rosie…” Sherlock’s voice broke, limbs shivering from the frost and agony. He could barely keep himself upright. At his words, Molly seemed to shake off the remainder of tiredness and take in the sight of him: greatcoat unbuttoned, no scarf, face ghostly pale, eyes red.

“Jesus, Sherlock, what happened?!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with worry. “Come in already. And calm down, dear God. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Gentle but persistent hands led Sherlock into the kitchen. The cosiness of the flat engulfed him with an unfamiliar intensity as if his body had already forgotten what warmth felt like. He collapsed on one of the chairs around the dining table and buried his face in his palms. The motion felt like a déjà vu. Over six years ago, he had sat in this exact spot, in the same position, with a similar weight pressing the air out of his lungs. Over six years ago, he had sat at Molly Hooper’s dining table and mourned his own death—the fall that had ripped him from John’s side, maybe forever. Back then, he had left John to ensure his safety. There had been no other way. Now, John had cast him out. Because Sherlock had finally disclosed the nature of his deep affection for him. And because he didn’t feel the same for Sherlock.

“Molly, I… we… he doesn’t…,” he mumbled through his fingers, unable to form his horror into a cohesive sentence. Speaking was incredibly arduous.

Molly sat down diagonally from him and reached out over the table to brush over his forearm in an attempt to lower it.

“Sherlock,” she repeated over and over again as he didn’t react, warm fingers on cold fabric. Her voice was drenched in worry. Yet, every time she said his name, Sherlock’s mind overwrote it with the warning snarl John’s lips had formed around it. He would never hear anything other than this dangerous growl. His name didn’t belong to him anymore.

Another pair of footsteps entered the kitchen and Sherlock let his hands sink to look up. He had Molly expected to be the only victim of his nocturnal intrusion. A man stood in the doorway—a pair of striped boxers, a vest, and a concerned smile all he was wearing.

“Oh, hi, Greg,” Sherlock said in an attempt to sound casual and forced himself to smile. It felt more like a grimace, unnatural and hollow. He just wanted to talk to Molly, the one person in front of whom he never needed to pretend to be bulletproof. Finding Lestrade here, now, in his state, was more than bothersome. Couldn’t his two friends have chosen a more convenient time to become a thing?

“Yeah, well, hey,” Greg said, running one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, visibly embarrassed by his lack of clothes. “Everything okay?” The question was directed at Molly.

“Well, no,” she said with an apologetical look at him before turning to Sherlock again. “John and Sherlock had a fight,” she asked rather than stated and Sherlock gave a small nod to confirm.

“About what?”

He longed to get the weight off his shoulders, ached to set down the boulder he was carrying and tend to the sharp cuts it had grated into his flesh. But telling the story would mean living through it again and that was simply too much. So, he stayed silent and stared at the table top with an intensity that might have burned a hole right through it.

“Sherlock, we can’t help if you don’t tell us,” Molly urged again, her lips curling in empathy. _We. Us._ The words rolled from her tongue like the most natural thing in the world. Hadn’t it been just 48 hours since she and Greg had danced in that club?

Greg began to rustle in the kitchen, making three cups of tea, careful to leave it to Molly to comfort Sherlock. She still eyed him over, presumably searching for any signs of substance abuse or physical injuries. Her tense expression was all the proof Sherlock needed to know that coming here before he would do anything stupid had been the right call.

Greg placed the cups in front of them and sat down next to Molly, who immediately leaned into his body. The gesture radiated an instinctive affection and intimacy Sherlock could barely fathom. The sight sent a flash of envy through his veins and he quickly lowered his gaze back to the table. Why had they finally figured out what they wanted and actually gotten it? _He’s been pining for her for years now_ , John’s voice echoed in his ear and made Sherlock bite the already swollen inside of his cheek. Why did they get to be happy? This was so unfair.

Craving contact with something warm as well, Sherlock wrapped his still half-frozen fingers around his teacup. The heat from the freshly brewed tea burned through the ceramic and directly into his skin but he hardly noticed. With every sip, his insides thawed a little more until he could feel every aching bit of it again. The sugared beverage had something soothing about it and, before Sherlock knew, he had finished his cup. Without anything else to occupy himself with, he lifted his eyes to find Molly and Greg still waiting for an explanation of his state. They wouldn’t let this go. After all, he had woken them up in the middle of the night.

“I really thought… after New Year’s Eve…,” Sherlock said, with a voice he didn’t recognize—hoarse and brittle as if it would crumble under the pressure of talking any second now. “But John denies even remembering us dancing in that club.”

“Well, he was pretty drunk,” Greg interjected but a nudge from Molly’s elbow silenced him at once. Sherlock lowered his eyes back to his empty cup, lips pursed in embarrassment.

“Tell us what happened,” she encouraged him again with her kind, doe-like eyes shining in the warm glow of the pendant light above her head. Many years ago, Sherlock had stopped resisting the urge to confide in those warm pools of cinnamon-sweet loyalty. She was the one who always saw him—at his weakest, his frailest, his smallest—and still cared.

The tiny nod Molly gave him and a deep breath was all it took for the whole story to finally spill from Sherlock’s cold-chapped lips; from John moving back to 221B and sharing a bed with him, to their walk in Regent’s Park yesterday morning and John’s flirt with that woman. At the thought of how little time lay between those blissful snow-covered moments and Sherlock’s whole life imploding, his voice juddered to a halt again.

“And that’s why you fought?” Molly broke the silence, with the most tender tinge of concern in her voice.

“Well, yes… I mean, we were just about to go to bed when John received a text from that woman and tried to shrug it off. And when I told him what an awful person she obviously was and that texting her was a mistake and that he was hurting me he just ran the whole _We-are-not-a-couple_ -harangue and… I… I just lost it. I screamed and cried and… Oh God, I told him everything,” Sherlock puled and fixated Molly with a horror-stricken stare.

“You told him that you love him?” she and Greg exclaimed in perfect unison, both completely flabbergasted.

“Well…,” Sherlock initiated his explanation until their words fully penetrated his consciousness. “Wait, you _know_?” His voice jumped an octave.

“Yeah, of course, we know. We just weren’t sure you did,” said Greg with brow furrowed in pity.

“Oh.” Sherlock sat back in his chair. And he had thought that this whole situation couldn’t get any worse. “How?”

“I wasn’t sure till John’s wedding day when you gave that speech. That was basically a love letter. Even a blind person could’ve seen how much you adore him,” Greg said and gave Molly a side glance.

“I’ve known since you jumped for him,” she said lowly and a sad smile flickered over her lips. Greg shifted in his seat and placed his hand tenderly on Molly’s thigh.

Sherlock felt his cheeks softly tint pink and hoped that the dim kitchen light would not reveal all too much of it. He had been so sure that his secret affection for his flatmate had been… well, secret. Yes, people commented on their special bond all the time and Sherlock had never actually contradicted anyone’s assumption about the nature of their relationship—the hopeful spark of people perceiving something more between him and John was way too delightful to stomp out. But his reputation of someone unable to connect with people emotionally had been enough of a protective shield for anyone to refrain from addressing matters personally. Had they all known before he had? Had he been so obvious?

“So, did you tell him?” Molly interrupted his thoughts.

“Not directly, no.”

“What did you say, then?”

Sherlock swallowed roughly as the memories surged up in his mind. The words had spilled so rapidly from his innermost core, not even consciously passing the barrier of his mind, that recalling their exact order took some effort. “I might have thrown every awful thing I ever had to endure because of him in his face,” he said sheepishly.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly sighed and covered her mouth with one hand. The tiny ladybirds on her dressing gown seemed to scuttle away from Sherlock in disgust. He couldn’t blame them.

“And that he is the only one for whom I ever felt anything like this,” Sherlock added, his voice now so weighed down by guilt that it barely bridged the wooden table top between him and his friends.

“How did he react?” asked Greg, the frown carved so deeply into his features that Sherlock doubted it would ever vanish again.

“He didn’t. Rosie began to cry and I wanted to take care of her and he… he just said _no_.”

The image of John’s face cooled the snug atmosphere of Molly’s flat perceptibly. Sherlock shivered. John’s features, hard and unmoving like concrete, had offered just another pavement for Sherlock to shatter on—this time for real. He had fallen for John Watson and broken every single bone upon landing. Warm gooey streams of blood ran over his face. He could feel it. Sherlock lifted his hand and scraped over his wet cheek. Nothing red shone on his fingertips, only clear liquid loss.

The tea had apparently rehydrated him enough to allow his body to spare some fluids for tears again. With quiet steadiness, they dropped from his chin. Molly and Greg both remained perfectly silent while Sherlock cried, freely and unashamedly, but the looks they shared whispered of compassion and… understanding. They both had lived through their share of unrequited love, too, Sherlock realized. At least this once, his inner workings didn’t estrange him from the rest of the world but made him belong. He was able to love—even if no one would ever love him back. What kind of monstrosity could he possibly be if he was capable of such sentiment?

When his eyes finally ran dry, Molly stood up to get him a tissue and Greg returned to the kitchen, this time to make coffee, in a silent agreement that it would be a long night. Sherlock was endlessly grateful for their discretion as he dried his face and took several deep breaths. Confiding his feelings to Molly and Greg was such a relief—as if the mere articulation of the horrifying thoughts clawing at the inside of his skull made them lose some of their viciousness. So, he kept talking, sharing, trusting, and every genuinely sympathetic response soothed his soul. His sense of time lay buried beneath all the secrets and sorrows he piled up on the table until a mighty yawn pried his jaw open.

“It’s late. You should rest, Sherlock, try to sleep. You can take the sofa,” Molly said and resolutely got up. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” Sherlock mumbled, dreading the nightmares that would inevitably visit him as soon as he lost consciousness.

“Just lie down for a bit then, alright?”

Sherlock didn’t object any further. Lying down didn’t sound so bad, after all. He was completely and utterly exhausted.

Greg rose as well and gave Sherlock an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Sherlock?”

The DI had been unusually quiet for the past few hours, observing Sherlock carefully, contemplating everything he said with the same unmoving frown anchored at his brows. Sherlock looked up at him through his dark curls.

“You need to talk to him. Sleep now and, in the morning, you guys can discuss this without all the anger and repressed emotions in the way. I’m sure that John never meant to hurt you like that. That’s not who he is. But you have to see things from his point of view: You confronted him with something life-changing, and you weren’t especially cautious or sensitive about it. He isn’t known to be incredibly in touch with his emotions so just give him a little time to process it. He’ll come around, I promise.” Greg’s fatherly grip fastened around Sherlock’s shoulder once more before he left the kitchen to help Molly set up the sofa.

 

***

 

The ticking clock on the sitting room wall was the only thing to stir the thick syrupy silence surrounding Sherlock as he lay there and stared at the dark ceiling. The sofa was several inches too short to actually fit the whole of his sprawled body on it so that his feet dangled over the edge. The house around him produced the strangest noises, distorting the shadows of the furniture into malicious figures slowly creeping closer. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t possibly sleep like this. Sherlock rammed his eyes shut, wishing himself back to times when a loving parent would console him whenever he couldn’t relax at night.

Although their existence was logically eliminated, checking for monsters under the bed and in the closet had been a crucial part of his night time routine. Mycroft had teased him about it every day as long as Sherlock could remember until he had finally stopped. But what did Mycroft know about the horrors that Sherlock’s imagination fabricated for him? It was foolish, Sherlock knew that, but he longed to get up and turn on the light just to see that nothing was lurking in the corners.

At half past five, he couldn’t stand it any longer. With as little noise as possible, he got up, folded the sheets to a neat pile, and put his greatcoat and shoes back on. A faint snore came from the bedroom but nothing else disturbed the silence. Molly and Greg were both fast asleep. Sherlock tiptoed to the front door and closed it carefully behind him. It was well before dawn and the night enveloped him in gracious darkness. He had to walk quite a bit to one of the busier streets to finally get a cab.

The twenty-minute ride to Baker Street woke both alarm and homesickness in Sherlock. He didn’t know what awaited him at home—if it still was a home. Greg’s words lingered in his ear and he desperately wanted to believe them, wanted to have faith in the idea that reconciliation was still possible. It had barely been seven hours since John had touched him with gentle fingers, calling him to their bed like every night—and still, these few hours had altered everything between them. Sherlock had torn down the façade, this glass wall between them that distorted their faces into something simple and innocuous. He could only pray that he hadn’t wielded his iron truth so hard that the cracks ran deeper, damaging the glowing core of their friendship.

221B still slumbered in darkness and silence as Sherlock scaled the stairs. He sucked in the familiar smell in a deep breath and opened the door to the sitting room, preparing himself for the abandoned battlefield he was about to behold. Sherlock felt it before he saw it, the foreboding making the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on ends as if something cold had just brushed over them. Something loomed there, painted black against the diffuse orange light seeping through the window: the dark silhouette of a man, leaning against the desk, waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked some more of that Mollstrade sweetness because I adore those two together <3 And I hope you're not tired yet of Sherlock's POV because discovering all the layers of repressed emotion is just fascinating for me and I just can't stop :D


	11. Sherlock's Chapter: Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street, things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you people :)
> 
> I couldn't get myself to upload this chapter without the next one to ease your pain a little--because the next few words are gonna be brutal (at least they were for me while writing them). So, get ready and power through!
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING:** This chapter describes an anxiety/panic attack, so please be careful if that triggers you :)
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Gavin James, Always](https://youtu.be/ZaOSi3WgemQ)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Drowning

_Cracks won't fix and the scars won't fade away._

_I guess I should get used to this._

_The left side of my bed's an empty space._

_I remember we were strangers._

_So, tell me what's the difference_

_Between then and now_

_And why does this feel like drowning?_

_Trouble sleeping, restless dreaming._

_You’re in my head_

_Always, Always._

 

Gavin James, Always.

 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snarled in a low voice and reached for the light switch. The glare from the ceiling lamp matched the one firing from his eyes. He really didn’t have any more energy left to deal with this right now. “You can’t just march in here whenever you please, Mycroft.”

The tall figure of his brother turned around, swung his obligatory umbrella around at his side, and approached Sherlock with the usual expression of smug indifference pinned on his face.

“I was worried about you, brother mine. One of my employees—”

“You mean one of your puny little spies?” Sherlock interrupted him with an eye roll that sent a sharp pain to the back of his head. His whole body bridled at the thought of Mycroft defiling this sacred cemetery of John and Sherlock’s former relationship with his eager snooping.

“—informed me early this morning,” Mycroft continued, “that he lost your phone signal, your last known location being in the middle of the Thames. You’ll surely understand that I had to stop by for a check-up.”

The thought that he had brought this unwelcome visitor onto himself, all due to a stupid, _stupid_ overreaction, made Sherlock’s throat close up. All this damn sentiment clouding his judgement. He hadn’t wasted a single thought about the effect of the little phone-throwing incident. Of course, he knew or at least strongly suspected that Mycroft still kept tabs on him. That a loss of signal under such circumstances would rather sooner than later gain his attention was comprehensible but, still, annoying. And poorly timed. Mycroft’s presence would complicate matters even further. He had to get rid of his brother, now.

“I’m alive and well, as you can see. That’s what you wanted to check, innit?” Sherlock said, baring his teeth in what anyone else could have mistaken for a smile.

“Of course, brother dear. You know how I worry about you,” Mycroft replied, absorbing Sherlock’s grin with his exaggeratedly benevolent expression.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He cut Mycroft’s way off in the middle of the sitting room, determined to regain his territory and some control over the situation. Standing mere inches apart, each eyed the other over with swift and skilled glances, scanning for data, for a pressure point. After more than three decades of this power play between them, the rules were abundantly clear.

Mycroft backed off first, minutely retreating and raising his brows at his little brother. Sherlock knew that his emotional distress and the sleepless night had left their traces all over his body, seeping from every pore. He could only hope that his adamantine unwillingness to put up with Mycroft right now was just as evident. To make sure of it, Sherlock closed the distance between them again, invading Mycroft’s space even further, forcing his brother to take a step back and cock his head in what Sherlock knew to be a gesture of temporary capitulation.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock broke the silence as Mycroft reluctantly and with demonstratively slow steps made his way to the door. If John had been woken by their early visitor, he would probably be here, mocking Mycroft with some snarky remark about not even bringing them breakfast. Sherlock loved witnessing those interactions. And if he was still asleep… The image of Mycroft towering over an unsuspecting John slumbering in their bed kindled his anger even further. If Mycroft didn’t move any quicker, Sherlock might as well give in to the urge to personally—and brutally—escort him out of 221B.

“Gone out. The flat was empty when I arrived ten minutes ago.”

Mycroft’s response, casual and matter-of-fact in tone, rang in his head, lacking meaning. Sherlock blinked rapidly. What had Mycroft just said? _Flat empty_? The realization hit Sherlock with the intensity of a wrecking ball. The air was forced out of his lungs, leaving them crumpled and so tightly compressed that they dangled in his chest, with miles and miles of dusty emptiness around them. The sitting room seemed to secede from the laws of physics, spinning and twisting on the edges of his vision.

“And… and Rosie?” The words tasted stale and bitter as he forced them out, not even sure how he could speak at all—there was no breath left to exit his body. It took enormous efforts to stay upright. Or had he lain down already? Was this the floor or the ceiling he stared at?

“Gone, too. He took the child with him, I suppose. After all, he is her father,” Mycroft’s voice crept to his ear, distant and distorted, “I can let someone find out where they are if—”

The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a deafening sound, the howl of an animal struck by a poisoned arrow, the outcry of a living being that knew death was coming for them. Only the pain in his strained throat made Sherlock’s last few rationally thinking brain cells realize it was him screaming. There was something cool and steady crashing into his knees and shins, then his hands and elbows. Somewhere in the distant corners of his mind, Sherlock recognized the thin, worn out carpet beneath his fingers.

John was gone. Rosie was gone. They were gone. John had fled, had abandoned him. And he had taken all of the oxygen with him. Sherlock’s breath sped up but there was nothing left to reach his begging lungs, no matter how desperately he sucked in the air. He would suffocate. He would die right here on their sitting room floor, surrounded by their armchairs. He would turn blue and suffocate and then crumble to ashes, to dust particles dancing in the spiralling room until no trace was left of Sherlock Holmes.

Hands were on his back, pulling him into a tight embrace. Someone called his name, over and over again, but that was just a hallucination. After all, he was in a vacuum. Sound couldn’t travel here, in the pitch-black darkness that surrounded him, without air, without life. It tore and tugged at Sherlock, begging him to join its nothingness.

Or maybe it was just those hands, those arms that held him, cradled him, pulled him back down to earth. Sherlock opened his eyes. Mycroft’s face above him had lost all colour. His eyes were wide with the same panic that still heaved Sherlock’s chest in rapid motion.

“Sherlock, please, slow,” Mycroft pled in a voice Sherlock only recognized from his darkest memories. “You’re hyperventilating. Deep breaths now. Follow me: In. Out. In. Out.”

His brother’s voice the only thing tethering him to reality, Sherlock imitated his breathing rhythm. Slowly, his vision cleared, only to be fogged up by tears again.

“John,” he choked out between forced deep breaths. “John.”

Without another word, Mycroft pulled him closer and Sherlock sobbed into his expensive three-piece suit.

 

Mycroft didn’t ask about it as Sherlock had feared. He simply stayed with him, silently, for endless numb hours as the sun rose and sunk again. Just like he had back then, Sherlock thought, gratitude blooming feebly in his empty chest. He had kept him company throughout one fateful night in May, had awaited him back at Baker Street in an unspoken acknowledgement of pain, and Sherlock had broken down almost as badly. When the love of his life had left him for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda wanna apologize for misleading all (or at least some) of you with the last chapter's cliffhanger. I couldn't resist it! :D And I desperately wanted to involve Mycroft in all of this :)
> 
> The next chapter is in John's POV and should clarify some of the more brutal issues of this fic, so have a go if you want to feel (a little) better.  
> I know I ride out the angst pretty badly in this fic but rest assured that there lie at least 4 fluffy/smutty chapters ahead to finish the story--happy ending(s) guaranteed :) So, please, keep reading. I don't know what I'd do without all of your feedback and support <3 <3 <3
> 
> And I already mapped out a sequel to this one with a little more balanced angst/fluff/smut ratio :D


	12. John's Chapter: Three Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to set things right. But before he can blaze the trail to his future, he must face the demons of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :)
> 
> This chapter reveals what John has been up to since Sherlock left 221B and resolves some of the pressing issues introduced so far. However, it is still emotionally exhausting (at least for me). Some of the issues are something I never had to deal with so please let me know if I handled them with the required amount of respect and geniality! I'm thankful for any kind of feedback :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Mumford and Sons, Holland Road](https://open.spotify.com/track/62hfdATBhYxe6y7vPUhLwn?si=ty5eYnUKSEyU8eAd2LnNqw)  
> (I wanted to include one of their songs in this fic but had a hard time choosing. This one, however, evoked a complete scenario in my head. I hope you get the same feeling)

# John’s Chapter: Three Graves

_So, I was lost, go count the cost,_  
_Before you go to the Holland Road._  
_With your heart like a stone, you spared no time in lashing out,_  
_And I knew your pain and the effect of my shame,_  
_But you cut me down,_  
_You cut me dow_ n.

Mumford and Sons, Holland Road.

 

The sound of the door shutting set John back in motion. As if in trance, he climbed the stairs and took his crying daughter in his arms. She was the only thing that counted now, his little girl, his Rosie. He bounced her in a mechanical movement, his mind around that toddler-shaped fixed star filled with overwhelming, all-consuming blankness. Something inside him had shut off, maybe permanently. Rosie seemed to sense his agitation and refused to be calmed down as if her life depended on it.

“It’s alright, bumblebee,” John mumbled into her silky blonde hair and soaked in his daughter’s comforting smell, but half an hour passed and Rosie still wailed on. “It’s alright, daddy’s here.”

Without his permission, the thought of Sherlock’s dark timbre with the magical ability to make Rosie fall asleep within minutes crept into John’s mind. Mere hours ago, they had bantered about it, carefreely and intimately. Mere hours ago, they had existed in this sphere of unadulterated happiness—a little family, unconventional but nonetheless perfect. How had they managed to destroy all this in one day?

John thought back to the simple sound of a text message that had started it all. Why did things have to escalate? Why did Sherlock have to start a fight like this? _You know damn well why_ , a voice bristled in his head. _What choice did you leave him? How did you think this arrangement would work? That he babysits Rosie while you’re out looking for the next Mrs. Watson? That he changes his whole life to accommodate your and Rosie’s needs until you find something better?_ _He was right to call you out and you know it._

John shook his head in a futile attempt to shoo away the truths that kept crawling in on him, claws sharpened, yellow predatory eyes glowing in the dark. Their caterwaul was deafening.

_You have driven him to this. You’ve hurt him. After all these years, did you really still believe in the fairy tale of the unfeeling machine he told you? You know him better than this. It just was the comfortable choice for you: It’s easier to deny everything that is between him and you as long as you can tell yourself that he doesn’t have feelings at all. It’s easier to pine for him from a safe distance as long as there is no chance for anything to happen—because Sherlock doesn’t have feelings, especially not for you, right? Wrong. And now that he offered you a real chance, what did you do? You rejected him in the worst way possible. You are such a coward, John Watson._

A wave of disgust and self-loathing washed through John’s veins and swept all his apathy away. Every cell was set back to full sensory capacity, and what they sensed was nothing but heartbreak. Oh God, what had he done?

John grabbed his phone out of his pocket and speed-dialled Sherlock’s mobile. No one answered. He tried again, unsuccessfully. With eager fingers, he typed a message.

 

_11:47_

**To: SHERLOCK**

Sherlock, pick up.

 

He redialled the number and pressed the phone back to his ear. Rosie still cried in his other arm, her sobs almost sounding over Sherlock’s voice. Upon hearing it, John’s stomach turned a somersault in relief, before he recognized the familiar words: “You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. If you’re a potential client please leave a message or, preferably, send an e-mail. If you are my brother, then feel free to fuck off.”

John hung up at the sound of the beep. Sherlock had declined his call. That meant he was at least noticing that John tried to contact him.

 

_11:48_

**To: SHERLOCK**

Don’t be stupid. It’s freezing cold outside. Please pick up.

 

On his next attempt, he let the phone ring for almost a minute before he gave up and sent yet another text, trying to sound as worried as he really was.

 

_11:50_

**To: SHERLOCK**

I’m sorry, Sherlock. Please just come home and talk to me.

 

Still, no answer. John fixated the screen as if the sheer intensity of his stare would suffice to coax a reaction out of Sherlock.

 

_11:56_

**To: SHERLOCK**

Please don’t do anything dangerous.

 

_12:03_

**To: SHERLOCK**

At least tell me where you are and that you’re okay. Please.

 

_12:08_

**To: SHERLOCK**

It’s alright if you don’t want to talk to me right now. I understand. I couldn’t have handled this any worse and I am terribly sorry, Sherlock. Take all the time you need. But please stay safe and don’t do anything you’ll regret later.

 

Rosie’s little hands fisted in his shirt and John turned his head to place gentle kisses on her forehead until her cries slowly ebbed away.

“He’ll come back, bumblebee. We’ll sort this out.”

John hugged her tightly to his chest and sat down in the armchair in the corner, murmuring the same phrases over and over again like an incantation. He had to believe them, hold onto them with all his power. Sherlock would come back and then John would fix things between them. Rosie’s tired eyes fell closed and she nestled her head in the crook of John’s arm.

In the silence of the room, only stirred by two sets of breathing, John’s mind replayed Sherlock’s words in an excruciating loop. He hadn’t known. He had put Sherlock through so much pain and he hadn’t known. What was he supposed to say, supposed to do when— _if_ —Sherlock came back? How was John supposed to process something like this? Now that Sherlock had shown his hand, John was the one their future relationship depended on, wasn’t he? What should he do? They couldn’t go back to just being friends and roommates and whatever else they had been all these past months. It was all or nothing now. But how could John possibly take that step? Sherlock was right: He had avoided facing this side of him for so long that he had almost convinced himself that it didn’t exist. How was he supposed to climb over these walls he had built around his heart? There was so much weighing him down, pulling him back to the ground as soon as he tried to push himself up onto the lowest ledge.

Over the course of the night, John dozed off a few times, only to be tortured by visions of Sherlock, his face pale and agonized, his hands clutching his chest were shards of his broken heart had pierced through his skin, colouring his shirt red with blood. Every time, John awoke with a start and a pain in his own chest that made him trace the fabric of his jumper to ensure he didn’t bleed.

At half past five, John couldn’t stand it any longer. He rose from the armchair, gathered everything he needed, and put it in the backpack he had repurposed as a diaper bag for Rosie. She began to whine again as he dressed her but, mere five minutes out on the cold dark street, sleep took her back into a warm embrace. John steered the pushchair down Baker Street to the underground station. His eldritch steps echoed on the almost empty platform of the Metropolitan Line. In less than two hours, hundreds of people commuting to work would crowd the space, pressing into each other, shoving and pushing to get into the carriages. This morning, only three other passengers got onto the tube with them. John made use of the few minutes he had and sent one last text to Sherlock’s phone.

 

_06:04_

**To: SHERLOCK**

Sherlock, when you come back (I still hope you do), don’t be alarmed that Rosie and I are gone. There are some things I need to take care of and then we’ll be back, promise. I really hope we can talk things through when we’re both home. Because there’s a lot that I need to tell you.

Love, John.

 

At Liverpool Street, they got off. The next train left ten minutes later. During their ride, Rosie woke again and demanded breakfast. While she sucked on one of the convenient little pouches filled with Greek yoghurt and fruit puree John had packed to go, he stared out of the window and gnawed at the tight knot of anxiety that had formed in his stomach. At a quarter past seven, he stepped out of the station, the city before him still wrapped in a coat of velvety darkness. A pale moon hovered over him as John made his way down the streets that had once been the centre of his universe. Everything was so much smaller. But that was unsurprising. Childhood memories always lost proportion over the course of growing up. And it had been more than fifteen years since he had last set foot in his hometown.

He passed the prissy terraced houses with their brick-lined fronts and little oriels, brimming over with domestic life; spouses, mothers, fathers heading off to work or spending a few leave days with their children before school started again; brothers and sisters fighting over the last left-over Christmas candy; snowmen inhabiting at least half of the front lawns. The warm light that fell through most of the windows now, bathing the pavement in its glow, looked so welcoming. John wondered how many of these houses kept what their façade promised.

He left the Upper Bridge Road with its suburban idyll behind and made a turn on Writtle Road. Only five minutes later, as he stopped in front of the gate and read the sign, he realized that he had not thought things all the way through:

 

**Chelmsford Cemetery & Crematorium**

Opening hours:

Mon-Sun, 9:00 – 16:00

Office hours:

Mon-Fri, 9:00 – 14:30

 

It was not even eight o’clock yet. Waiting for another hour out there in the cold or walking back to find a café or bakery that was already open—neither a satisfying option. John looked around in the grey half-light that announced the arrival of the winter sun. There was only an elderly man walking his dog in sight. John steered the pushchair back to the end of the fence, where an unguarded footpath led directly onto the grounds, and entered the cemetery. The chances that some guard would stop him at this hour were negligibly small. And if he was completely honest, he’d rather there weren’t any other visitors around for what he planned on doing.

The years that had passed since John had last been here had not taken their toll on his sense of direction. He had walked this path a thousand times before. With a certainty as if the route was tattooed on his skin, his feet led him along the ramified trails without taking a single wrong turn. Despite its familiarity, roaming a deserted graveyard in the break of dawn had a strange feeling to it. The back of his neck tingled from invisible fingers dragging over his skin and, more than once, he was sure someone was watching him. Was there a guard, after all, following him, or another early morning intruder? John forced himself to not look over his shoulder and tried to shake off the odd ambience.

Although he knew what to expect, the sight took him by surprise when he arrived at his destination: two tombstones sat there, side by side, made of the same dark shade of granite. The left was grievously familiar while John had not seen the one on the right before.

**Greta Elizabeth Watson née Cohen             Geoffrey Hamish Watson**

14.02.1954 – 31.05.1993                               23.08.1952 – 04.11.2007

Beloved wife, caring mother

 

He had not attended his father’s funeral. He had lain under the burning Afghan sun, covered in dust and sweat and fear, while Geoff Watson had become part of the earth again. His superiors had offered him special leave but John had declined.

The graves’ state spoke volumes about their negligence. Back in the day, John and his family had visited his mother’s grave every Sunday after church to lay down fresh flowers. His father had insisted on it with iron strictness. John could still hear the names he had called Harry the first time she had refused to go with them, could still see her reddened cheek under runny mascara. Not even a year later, she had left, forever.

John swallowed heavily around the lump in his throat. He had good reasons for not visiting his father’s last resting place, even after he had returned from Afghanistan. But now, other even more important reasons had finally brought him here. He needed to get this off his chest.

John lifted Rosie up on his arm and gestured to the grave on the left. “Say hello to your grandma, bumblebee. I’m so sorry you never met her. She would’ve loved you so much.”

Rosie nestled her cold little nose in the crook of his neck and John grabbed her tighter. It was a shame that his daughter would grow up without a proper grandmother. John knew, that Greta would have coddled the little girl with all the warmth and kindness she had swathed her own kids in. God, how he missed her.

“I haven’t done this in a while, talk to someone’s grave I mean,” he began, eyes fixed on the ground. His voice, as small as it was, still resounded from the trees sheltering them from the world outside of this bitterest of family reunions. This small piece of graveyard, tinged with the pink of the rising sun, existed in a different reality, John was sure. He turned to the grave on the right, to the frozen solid earth where his father’s remains lay, still claiming authority over him. John cleared his throat and adopted the defensive stance impending danger called for, shoulders broad, feet securely rooted on the footpath. _Soldiers today._

“Dad, I’m going to say things now I’ve carried with me for a long time, decades even. I know you didn’t want to hear them when you were alive but you’re not anymore, so… you’ll have to listen to me now. Because I have to tell you, should’ve told you back then. Back when Harry moved out, when you basically kicked her out just because she brought home a girl. I should’ve told you then but I was so scared of you. Of you and your anger and your disappointment.”

He cocked his head, placed a kiss in Rosie’s hair, and prayed that she never felt the same things he had as a child.

“I think you knew it, somewhere deep inside, ever since that day you dragged me home from Aaron Spencer’s house, you know, the little white one on Holland Road. Do you remember? I’ll never forget and, fuck, I tried to. I got my first kiss that day, in Aaron’s garden, behind the pear tree. You came to pick me up and found us all sitting there. We played spin-the-bottle as soon as we had finished our first bottle of cider, Aaron, Lisa, Edith, and I. Edith had nicked a few from her sister and we giggled and felt so grown-up. You must’ve seen me kiss Aaron. It wasn’t just a quick peck but a real kiss. And I was over the moon until you showed up. When we came home that night, you told me how disgusted you were, how disappointed Mom would’ve been. And you hit me for the first time. It had always been Harry’s head on the line until then. She had always been the one that brought shame upon our family, as you used to call it. Even after she had left, you’d never lain a finger on me, till that day.”

John felt tears escape his eyes in a steady stream he did not intend to stop. It had to come out now, all of it. He half-expected the earth to open up and swallow him, bury him next to his father where his shame could suffocate him for all of eternity.

“You can’t imagine how much I wished that what you had seen wasn’t the truth. God knows, I told myself it wasn’t, for years and years. I tried everything to make up for that defect you saw in me, the same mar you disowned your daughter for. I tried so hard; in school, in sports, in college, all my life, just to make sure that you and Mom could be proud. You had cast Harry out and I had to be the perfect son if I didn’t want to end like her.”

John exhaled sharply, letting the bile simmering in his gut evaporate in the bleak air.

“But I’m done with that now. I am so tired of all this guilt. I’m a father myself now and I want Rosie to become the person she wants to be, no matter what. I don’t want to pass all this garbage on to her. This—the hypocrisy, the hate, the secrecy—ends with me. So, now, I’m giving myself permission to feel this, all of it. Because there’s someone who sees me the way I really am. Someone special and smart and beautiful and kind and just extraordinary. And I think he loves me. There is a real chance for me to get everything I’ve wanted since I can’t remember when. A chance to be happy, to actually feel happy from the bottom of my heart, not just because I should be.” John let a smile spread over his tear-wetted features. “He makes me happy, even if he drives me crazy. And I know if you love me the way that parents should love their children, then you’ll be just as happy for me, with me, regardless of my preferences.”

John licked his lips and took a deep breath, readying himself for his final words: “I am bisexual. And I am in love with the most brilliant man to ever walk this earth.”

The icy January wind swiped the words off his lips and swirled them through the air until they got caught in the bare branches of the trees around them, shimmering in the sunrise like golden skeletons. Relief flooded his system. He had said it, told the universe this heavy truth he bore since his teenage years, for the first time in his life. Whatever happened next would happen to a different John Watson, the true John Watson. He closed his eyes and let the morning sun dry his tears.

 

***

 

On the ride back to London, John played with Rosie and her little stuffed elephant, a calm smile on his lips. He had still a long way to go, so many problems left to address, but he had never felt prouder in his life. Exhausted, raw, stripped of all defences, yes. But oh, so proud.

At the station, he bought himself a late breakfast consisting of a cup of coffee and a sandwich. He also stopped at a florist and purchased a bouquet of white roses. He couldn’t possibly show up without flowers.

 

“I know I don’t come around as often as I should. You’re not even the first grave I’m visiting today,” John said with a pained little chuckle as he bent down in front of the marble tombstone and let Rosie’s little hands place the posy on the ground. “I really haven’t been the best widower so far and you know how sorry I am about that. I even forgot to wear my ring. I really didn’t mean this to happen, not consciously at least, but I… I just can’t stop myself from moving on, Mary.”

John rose again, holding Rosie upright on her tiny gloved hands, while she greeted her mother in wet babbling sounds. She had grown so much. Soon she would walk on her own, speak, leave for her first day of school, dance on her wedding day. Without her mother there to guide her. John’s insides ached for his daughter. But there was also so much room now, for a different future to grow in the space Mary had left, a better one even. John would do all humanly possible to fill that void with love and adventures and flowers to bloom in the spring. And his little girl would be happy, sung to sleep by a dark, honey-like voice, walked down the aisle by two pairs of fatherly hands. The thought made John’s heart sing.

“I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, I really am; for giving me Rosie, for finding me in my darkest hour and bringing a little light and normality and security into my life again. But if you knew me as well as I suspect you did, then you know that I never belonged to you, not really. You have seen it, the truth that I took so long to accept. And I really hope you know that it doesn’t invalidate anything that was between us. I loved you, God knows I did, just not with all the love I am capable of. And you loved me, I know you did. Although I didn’t deserve it. I’ve never been completely honest with you, didn’t show you all of me. If you can see me now: This is who I am. I want Rosie to grow up with my real self. I want the people I love to see me like this. So, take a good look, wherever you are now. And tell me, you’ll forgive me. Give me your blessing to move on.”

A soft breeze rustled the roses on the ground and Rosie squeezed John’s hands with firm fingers. He couldn’t stop the shiver running down his spine as he lifted Rosie up and looked into her round cheerful face, so much like her mother’s. She would always be with them.

“Thank you.” John could barely hear his own words hitting the ground. He closed his eyes and caught a single tear with his curling lips. After this day, he would have used up his tear contingent for the whole year.

“You’re not the only one I need to beg for forgiveness, Mary. I’ve hurt more people for so many years, I’ve hurt them so badly. I don’t know if I can ever make up for it. I’ve done everything wrong. How can you put years of cruelty and suffering right? How can they ever forgive me for the pain I put them through? I’ve always tried to be a good man but, in the course, I deserted the people closest to me. I’ll do anything to try and fix it but what if I can’t? What if I ruined everything, irreversibly?”

Rosie patted his face in a clumsy little gesture, demanding his attention. Her bright eyes shone with all the impatience of a toddler and made his worries shift focus. He needed to get her back inside soon. All of this running and standing around in the cold couldn’t be good for a one-year-old. He’d find them a nice quiet bistro or café where they could comfortably spend the next few hours. Rosie could take a nap or make a mess out of a plate of plain pasta, and John would watch her and contemplate his next steps. Everything would work out.

He turned his head back to Mary’s tombstone, the marble glistening in the winter sun that bravely fought its way through the clouds passing overhead.

“I want to be more than the man you thought you’d married. Because you are gone now. And you left me a message. Do you remember? I want to fulfil your last wish. I want to be worthy of his love. Be better, braver, kinder.”

_Well, then, John Watson, get the hell on with it_ , whispered the wind in the swaying trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so nervous to write this chapter and I'm still not quite sure if I met my own expectations. As a cishet girl, writing a coming-out, especially of someone who has suppressed their feelings for so long, is not an easy task. I really hope I lived up to it. Please let me know if anything bothers you or if my approach feels inappropriate!
> 
> The dates on the tombstones, as well as the name of John's hometown, are derived from his CV we get to see in TBB. It states that John left Grammar School in 1999, so I chose 1981 as his birth year (don't even know if that conclusion makes any sense). That would make John a whole lotta younger than Martin Freeman, so yeah... In my fic, Rosie's age doesn't align with the series' timeline either. So screw all that math and call it artistic freedom :)


	13. John's Chapter: Two Cups of Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to make amends with another person close to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! :)
> 
> Are you still there? I really didn't mean to wait this long before posting again (felt like ages for me, at least) but I had work and some real trouble getting this chapter onto (digital) paper. I hope you are not disappointed with the result of my struggles :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [John Mayer, In the Blood](https://youtu.be/ob-jS7bqYgI)  
> (Once again, it is one of the songs that let an entire scene bloom in my head and sparked the idea for this whole confrontation)

# John’s Chapter: Two Cups of Coffee

_How much like my brothers do my brothers wanna be?_

_Does a broken home become another broken family?_

_Or will we be there for each other, like nobody ever could?_

_Will it wash out in the water or is it always in the blood?_

 

John Mayer, In the Blood.

 

The sun hung low in the sky, painting golden stripes on the walls and tables, as she entered the café. John rose from his seat in the corner, clutching and stretching his hands in an attempt to get the nervous energy out of his system.

“Harry, over here,” he called as his sister stopped at the entrance and searched the room for a familiar face. As she spotted him, her eyes lit up in a smile that John tentatively mirrored. His facial muscles stung under the forced expression. It was much more terrifying to confront someone that could actually answer.

“I’m glad you could make it,” John said as Harry reached his table and pulled him into an awkward hug. Even her thick winter coat couldn’t hide how much her wing bones stuck out beneath John’s fingers. Harry had always been thin, bordering on anorexic, and John hadn’t expected anything to have changed. Year after year, he had tried to address this subject and it had only estranged them further. At one point, he had decided to stop nagging her about her weight, just as he didn’t comment on her drinking anymore. She was an adult and capable of her own decisions, even if she still radiated the relentless energy and spite of a snotty teenager. Harry never played by anyone else’s rules and John had to accept that. Yet, he sucked in the air as she doffed her coat and revealed the frame beneath. She looked so fragile with her ash blonde waves bouncing around a prominent collar bone and hollow cheeks. Her waist was so tiny that John thought he’d be able to wind both hands around it with his fingers still touching each other.

“Yeah, me too,” Harry said and let John pull out one of the chairs for her. He dropped back on his own seat and eyed his sister over. His guilty conscience clutched his guts and twisted them into a painful knot. More than two years had passed since John had last seen her and neither the distance nor their busy lives justified that kind of alienation. After all, Harry was the only relative he had left. The eagerness with which she had accepted his invitation proved once more that Harry wanted John in her life although she never was the one to call first or invite him anywhere. John calmly resolved to make more of an effort in the future—if they were still on speaking terms after this.

John traced her features with an inquiring gaze, noting how emaciated his sister looked, how spent. A pair of the same blue eyes, though more prominent in her child-like face, stared back at John, surely counting the deeper lines on his own face.

“So, how're things?” he asked, consciously keeping his voice interested and relaxed. With Harry, he always struggled to hit the right tone. Her disarming honesty made every conversation a minefield of possible conflicts and awkwardness.

“Good,” Harry simply said and grabbed the menu, leaving John to continue the conversation.

“Do you still work at that shop then?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Right.”

The waitress taking their orders a few minutes later came as a welcomed interruption. Being trapped in meaningless small talk was excruciating. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, John thought with a dull aching behind his sternum, as he watched his sister twirl one strain of her hair around her finger. The gesture stung in its familiarity and, still, John had trouble recognizing the girl he knew beneath the woman she had become over the years. They had been each other’s confidants, playmates, and occasionally worst enemies. They had been close, as close as siblings could be. And then, everything had changed.

“Is this Rosie?” Harry asked and leaned over the table to get a look at her niece curled up on the bench next to John, her head resting on his jacket. “Oh, look at her. What a perfect little angel.”

“Yes, she is, well, at least when she’s asleep. When she’s in a bad mood, she can be a downright monster,” John said with a chuckle and carefully brushed Rosie’s cheek with his thumb, “but, God, I never loved anyone as much as her. That is such a cliché but it’s true. Having kids makes you realize what unconditional love feels like.”

A sad smile flickered over Harry’s face. “At least for some people.” Her voice carried the usual air of confident truculence but John didn’t miss the undertones of bitterness that tinged her demeanour now.

He swallowed around the pile of hurtful memories that Harry’s words evoked and raised his eyes to his sister.

“She looks just like mom,” Harry mumbled with a softened expression as she watched Rosie wrinkle her nose in her slumber.

“Yeah, I know,” John agreed, glad to share that thought with someone, and shot Harry a melancholy smile as she looked up again. Both of them carried the weight of having inherited Greta Watson’s eyes, a constant reminder of her presence—and absence. But, more so than John whose sturdy figure matched his father's, Harry had always been a miniature of her mother, from her stubborn head to her toes. John had often wondered if Geoff would’ve treated Harry differently if she weren’t a reflection of the woman he had loved and lost. And he wondered if Harry knew how painful it was for John to look at her, to see his sister, now about to surpass their mother in age, waste away under his gaze, just as Greta had. Now, her image would live on in yet another generation, in a granddaughter she never got to hold. John silently begged every entity that might hear him for granting his Rosie a less brutal fate than that of the women whose face she wore.

“I actually didn’t just ask you here to meet Rosie,” he said after the waitress had brought them two cups of coffee. He licked his lips, readying himself for another confession, another redemption. “I wanted to see you— because I need to apologize, Harry.”

“Apologize? For what?” Harry raised one eyebrow and let the words out in a half-amused puff of air.

“For being an awful brother, basically.” John rubbed the back of his neck before forcing himself to fixate Harry again. He had thought about this conversation for more than the past couple of hours, had meant to tell her for years if he was being honest. It had always lingered in some abandoned corner of his mind, locked behind old grudges and self-denial. “I should’ve stood up for you, should’ve protected you. That’s what brothers are supposed to do. I was such a coward, always let you take the blame. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

His sister’s eyes widened in genuine surprise and a belittling smile fought its way up her lips.

“Johnny, you were still a kid when Mum died. There was really nothing you could’ve done.”

John’s insides clenched even tighter at the nickname. No one had ever called him Johnny, except for his mother and sister, back when he had run around in the small garden of a home that would break apart before he turned thirteen. Harry had mostly used it as a term of mockery rather than endearment but, over the course of their adulthood, it had become a codeword, a relic of happier times, and a signal for affection when their pride and their past inhibited any other words.

“You were a kid yourself. Two years don’t make you that much more of an adult. And even if I was too young to stand by you then, I didn’t do anything after I left home either. I should’ve been there for you. I am your brother, after all.”

“It’s not your job to protect me or look after me. I can do that myself, thank you,” Harry said a bit too loud. The couple two tables over paused their own conversation to shoot her an interested glance.

“I know, Harry. That’s not what I’m trying to say,” John appeased her in a lower voice but Harry’s eyes already shone with the same fire John knew from her teenage years, from every fight she had picked with their father, from every rebellious remark she couldn’t keep in.

“That’s the thing about you, Johnny,” she said, “you always want to protect people. That’s why you became a doctor and a soldier. You sacrifice yourself for others because there’s this deep-rooted guilt in you that you _abandoned_ me or something. But that is utter shite, alright. You don’t owe the world anything. And you don’t owe me anything. You were fourteen when I left, for God’s sake. I was much better off out of that house and I bet Dad and you were, too.”

“Harry,” John said calmly, raising one hand to stop her from ranting on, “I’m trying to tell you something here.”

“What? That you are still the saint, the perfect little angel boy that Mum and Dad can be extra proud of? The doctor and the war hero and now the father of their only grandchild?”

“Harry—”

“If you really invited me here to tell me that you feel responsible for Dad kicking me out or hitting me or whatever, then I’ll leave right now. Because I can’t take any more of your pity and benevolence. Why do you always have to be such a do-gooder? I’m responsible for my own life and I am so fucking tired of you telling me that I’m not.”

“That’s not—,” John began but his voice got lost somewhere in his throat before he could finish his sentence. He shut his eyes for a second, drawing in a deep breath and hopefully some strength and patience. Why did things always have to be like this between them?

“Harry, please stay. Alright? I’m trying to tell you,” he started again, reaching over the table for her hand, “that I am bisexual.”

Upon these words, the anger slipped from Harry’s face like a thick veil giving way to gravity and exposed an incredulous smile. She intertwined their fingers and gave them a squeeze, warmth spreading from their hands and spilling over the table. An ancient weight lifted off John’s cervical vertebrae.

“You are?” Harry asked, her grin broadening with every passing second. “How long have you known?”

“For decades, I guess. I just never had the courage to accept it.” John met Harry’s eyes and let her overt joy infect his own lips until a shy smile bloomed on them. “That’s why I wanted to meet you, Harry; not only to tell you but to apologize that I was such a hypocrite. Always telling you to aim for something higher, to make better choices, and secretly being glad when things didn’t work out. I was… just so envious of you. You never pretended to be something you’re not. You were always true to yourself, no matter the cost. I admired you so much. And then I saw what happened to you after you came out. Every time Dad called you a freak or an abomination or a disgrace I had the chance to step up and share the pain with you but I didn’t. I was just so scared. Instead, I let you take all the shame and despised you for your freedom. Over the last thirty years, I didn’t spend a single day without hiding this part of me from the world and myself. Even after Dad was gone, I couldn’t find the courage to follow your lead. That’s what I wanted to apologize for. I shouldn’t have left you alone with this, because you never were. I should have been your ally instead of blaming you for my own cowardice. I really am so fucking sorry, Harry.”

“Oh, Johnny.” That was all his sister got out before falling mute for a few minutes. John tried to remember the last time they had shared such a comfortable silence. Harry’s thumb rubbed little circles on his skin while her other hand raised her cup for careful sips.

“Why now?” Harry finally broke the quietude with coffee-warmed words, the blue of her eyes now tinged with sincerity and something like worry.

“I got a wake-up call if you will,” John said and licked his lips at the thought of it.

“A wake-up call? You aren’t sick or anything, are you?”

“No.” John quickly perked up the corner of his mouth as the worried expression in his sister’s eyes deepened; only to be replaced by the light of an epiphany the next second.

“You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” Harry grinned and took another sip of her coffee.

“Well, we’ve met years ago but things were… complicated. I always thought he wasn’t interested in anything romantic at all, especially not with a man, but—”

“Oh my God, it’s Sherlock,” Harry blurted out and unsuccessfully tried to shut off a laugh at John’s horrified expression, “I knew it! I _knew_ it! You couldn’t stop talking about him and, oh, that blog you wrote and—oh my God— _finally_!”

John felt his cheeks flush and withdrew his hand from Harry’s grasp to cover his face for a second. If even Harry who wasn’t part of his everyday life had seen through his façade, then John hadn’t been stealthy about his attraction at all. What use were all of his defence mechanisms if his own behaviour betrayed him constantly, telling all the world what he really felt? He had thought that, after the more than embarrassing conversation at Angelo’s on their very first night, he had it all under control. Because he wasn’t still into boys. And Sherlock wasn’t into anyone. But everyone had told a different story. All the comments he and Sherlock had received over the years came crashing down on him and, suddenly, he felt as transparent as the windows glistening in the afternoon sun. The whole world probably knew, except for the two people that really mattered. How much time had they wasted? If only John had gotten his act together sooner. If only Sherlock had made a move. If only one of them had taken that risk.

“So, you guys are together now?” Harry asked through the snicker that still refused to ebb away.

“Not exactly. We just had a big fight last night and Sherlock told me how he felt and then he just bunked off. Now, I can’t get a hold of him. I texted him half a dozen times but he doesn’t answer, won’t pick up either. I’m so worried, Harry. I told him to come home and talk things over with me but I don’t know what to do when he doesn’t. What if he’s done something stupid? He’s not exactly cautious when it comes to his own well-being.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just needs time to cool off, you know.”

“I hope so. I messed up so badly when he told me all those things, how he had wished for something more between us for years and… I just didn’t notice how much he was hurting. If I can’t make this right… I can’t lose him again.”

Harry took his hand once more, soothing John’s twirling thoughts with her firm yet gentle touch. With every stroke, he felt taken back to his childhood, to nights when he couldn’t sleep and Harry had told him stories and jokes until he giggled himself to exhaustion, all while rubbing his head or hand just like this. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed his big sister’s protection, even if he didn’t deserve it.

“It’ll be alright, Johnny. Now that the truth is out, it’s much easier to sort things out, trust me.”

“I caused him so much pain, Harry,” John said, unable to stop his voice from trembling, “not only emotionally.” He lay down the events that had led to what John could only regard his darkest moment. “I punched him, really punched him. Kicked him, too. Hard. I really meant it, I wanted him to suffer. And it wasn’t even the first time. When he came back from the dead I gave him a bloody nose because… I was just so angry.”

“Your wife had just died. And you had grieved Sherlock’s death for what—two years? It’s no wonder you were in such a bad place and snapped,” Harry said and, at John’s expression, quickly added: “I’m not approving of it but I can… understand. And I’m sure Sherlock does too.”

“But what if I lose my temper again? What if I hurt him again? What if—What if I’m turning into Dad?” His voice died out, having given sound to a fear that haunted John since that fateful day in the hospital. He had been so cruel, so merciless, that the thought of it chilled his own blood. How could he expose Sherlock to something as dangerous as him? And what about Rosie? Would he hurt her, too, if she only provoked him enough? How could he be sure that he would never snap like that again, that he didn’t become someone his own family was constantly scared of?

“You are not,” Harry said peremptorily and her eyes—the eyes their mother had left them both—fixated John in a stern stare. “The very fact that you are worried about it happening makes you a million times better than him, Johnny. You are a good person; don’t you ever doubt that. You have endured so much and you’re allowed to make mistakes. That’s what makes you human.”

John couldn’t help but smile at the expression, Sherlock’s voice ghosting through his veins.

“The only important thing is,” Harry continued, “that you learn from them and take responsibility for them, that you make amends.”

“I’m trying,” John replied calmly. “I’d do anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one way to go from here--back to Baker Street in the next chapter! I'm afraid I'll have to work again for at least the next four days so that I won't have much time to write but, after that, I've got several long train rides scheduled that all beg to be filled with hours and hours of writing :) I hope you remain patient with me and don't lose interest before the final confrontation between those stupid lovesick idiots <3
> 
> As always: Comments are my greatest pleasure so feel free to address anything at all! :)


	14. John's Chapter: One Thing Left to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally returns to Baker Street to reconcile with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you :)
> 
> Are you still there, still reading this? I wanted to upload this chapter much earlier but just didn't have any time between work and visiting my family. I hope it was worth the wait! :)
> 
> This Chapter's song is:  
> [James Bay, Need the Sun to Break](https://youtu.be/Hj0zCR9zvZY)  
> (God, I love this song, it's so beautiful.)

# John’s Chapter: One Thing Left to Do

_I need the sun to break, you've woken up my heart._

_I'm shaking, all my luck could change._

_Been in the dark for weeks and I've realized you're all I need._

_And I hope that I'm not too late,_

_I hope I'm not too late._

 

James Bay, Need the Sun to Break.

 

As they said goodbye, John and Harry shared a tight hug that seemed to mend some of the broken bonds between them. His heart still light from the acceptance and reassurance his sister had offered, John made his way through the darkening city. Rosie had become increasingly grouchy since she had woken up from her nap and now fidgeted in her pushchair. It was about time that he brought her home, John thought. _Home_. Could he still call it that? He quickly swallowed the worries sitting on his tongue and reminded himself to remain calm. All was not lost yet.

Still, John’s nerves began to buzz in something between anticipation and sheer panic with every step he and Rosie got closer to Baker Street. If Sherlock hadn’t returned to 221B yet… What was he supposed to do? Calling and texting hadn’t been successful and John doubted that he would be able to find Sherlock if he wanted to be alone. Maybe he could call Mycroft who surely had an eye on his little brother’s every move but that would certainly not aid in regaining Sherlock’s trust or affection. Besides, the thought of asking Mycroft for help, especially in such delicate and private a matter, made John’s stomach turn.

Sherlock had to be home. He simply had to. If anything he had said about the inner workings of his heart had been true—and why shouldn’t it be? —then Sherlock needed to wait for John to return, to reconcile, to fix this. They had always managed to find their way back to each other, hadn’t they? No matter what life threw at them, no matter how much danger and despair they had to overcome, they had always returned to each other eventually. John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John. They belonged together, couldn’t exist without the other, John was sure, now more than ever. Once again, the time it took him to realize this simple truth mortified John. What if he was too late?

The metallic 221B shone golden against the door’s dark painted wood, an almost blindingly bright offer of salvation. A sense of homeliness and hope tingled in John’s chest at the sight. He lifted the squirming Rosie from her pushchair with some difficulty and mounted the few steps. Unconsciously, John raised his free hand and let his fingers trace the knocker, its worn out surface pleasantly cool and familiar beneath his burning skin. His heart pumped too fast. He fumbled with his keys for some tedious moments before he finally unlocked the door.

Held back by invisible chains, John halted again. Every inch of his being ached to step in, to walk up the stairs and be at ease again. Yet, the soldier within him knew that he was about to access unknown territory that called for caution. There might now lie landmines beneath those floors he had walked a thousand times, there might be spring-guns hidden behind curtains. Bracing himself by a deep breath, John entered the hallway. As he dragged the pushchair in behind him, Mrs. Hudson scurried from her own flat and greeted him with an expression on her face that tightened John’s chest.

“John, thank God,” she said, hands raised in a worried gesture. At her words, his heartbeat sped up another notch.

“Mrs. H, what’s the matter?”

“It’s Sherlock,” she all but wailed and John wondered how often he had heard these words in that exact tone over the years before the realization hit him.

“He’s here then?”

“Yes but—” Mrs. Hudson said and relief flooded John like warm cleansing water. Sherlock was here, he was home. The part of John that had already pictured his friend in a drug den, the hospital, or worse let out a breath he had been holding for hours. His ears rang with the rushing sound of his own blood, accelerated by alleviation, almost drowning out the rest of his landlady’s utterance.

“You better see for yourself,” Mrs. Hudson said, words barely hiding her indignation. “They shooed me away as I wanted to bring up the tea.”

“They?” John repeated absent-mindedly, staring up the stairs that separated him from any future he and Sherlock might have, the word’s meaning barely piercing the surface of his billowy mind. Before Mrs. Hudson could clarify the matter, he added: “Could you maybe take care of Rosie? I need to discuss some things with Sherlock and—”

“Of course, dear,” she said at once, taking the toddler in her arms. “I can keep her at my flat for the night so you boys can talk.”

“Thank you,” John called over his shoulder, already halfway up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

As he reached the landing, the door to the kitchen swung open and a man appeared in the frame.

“Mycroft?” John asked, his bewilderment politely covering his repugnance, as he took in the figure of the older Holmes brother. As if this day hadn’t cost him enough strength already.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft replied, raising his eyebrows at John in what seemed to be genuine surprise. Something about him was off, although John couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “What brings you here?”

“I live here,” John deadpanned and pushed past him into the sitting room. “Where’s Sherlock?”

It was empty, as was the kitchen. John turned around to look at Mycroft who was still demonstratively standing at the open door and now dropped his falsely polite smile. “I don’t think he wants to see you right now.”

“Then I’d like for him to tell me that in person,” John said, reciprocating the glare Mycroft shot him with equal force. Couldn’t the universe have sent him anyone else to punish him? Anyone but this embodiment of posh self-importance with his smug face and fancy suits and—then, it hit John, the detail that had thrown him off. Mycroft wasn’t wearing his jacket. Only an undoubtedly expensive white button-down and grey waistcoat clad his slightly chubby torso. That was still one more piece of clothing than Sherlock usually wore and yet John felt like Mycroft was standing in front of him in his underwear. He had never seen Mycroft take off his jacket somewhere outside his own home—other than in situations of utmost crisis. The sight made John’s already twitching nerves whiz with another sudden surge of panic. This was wrong, all wrong. The falseness of the whole situation seeped from every inch of the wallpaper and clung to John’s neck, slowly but surely pressing his newly-found breath out of his throat.

“He is really not in the condition to see anyone right now,” Mycroft reiterated, lowering his voice and head in an air of accusatory rigidness. “You promised me to look after him.”

Every single word hit John like a bullet, shattering bones and tearing his flesh into gory tatters.

“What do you mean? In the condition?” John asked, voice heavy with the fears catching up with him. Images of Sherlock crashing back down after a high in their bed, shivering, hurting, impaired his vision now in a tormenting dance. “Mycroft, is he— has he—?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. I was here to prevent worse.”

A new wave of relief that washed over John at Mycroft’s negation ran dry as fast as it had come. Worse? Worse than Sherlock taking drugs again? John’s thoughts careened in his head. What had happened in the hours he had been gone?

Something moving, a figure in the barely lit hallway leading to the kitchen, caught his attention.

“John?”

If he didn’t have visual confirmation, John would never have guessed that the voice forming his name belonged to Sherlock—hoarse and shaky and forlorn. Sherlock stepped into the light of the sitting room lamp that reached the kitchen and hesitantly stopped next to Mycroft, their shoulders almost touching. More than the deep purple colour of the bruise-like shadows under his puffy eyes or his suppliant posture, it was this gesture of wilful closeness to his brother that sealed it: Sherlock was not okay. He was as far from being okay as John had ever seen him, even at his darkest hours. He looked positively demolished, with his messy hair and yesterday’s wrinkly clothes clinging to his lean chest. John swallowed heavily. This was his fault.

“Sherlock, Jesus, what happened?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. “Would you be so kind as to leave us alone?” he asked, turning to Mycroft and carefully avoiding John’s inquiring gaze.

“Are you sure that’s—,” Mycroft began and shot John a side-glance.

“Yes. Leave. Now,” Sherlock said sternly, adding an almost affectionate “Please” while grabbing his brother’s coat from one of the kitchen chairs and gently nudging him out of the door.

“If anything… Just call, will you?” Mycroft fixated Sherlock, words thick with worry, and, to John’s astonishment, Sherlock simply nodded and gave his brother a sad little smile instead of a snarky remark. John’s insides coiled into a tight knot. If the Holmes brothers didn’t even squabble anymore… This was bad. This was wrong. Why had Mycroft been here in the first place? What had his presence prevented from happening?

Mycroft closed the door behind him and, immediately, Sherlock turned around and asked: “What are you doing here? Picking up some of your stuff?” His voice had gained back some of the cold indifference he used on boring clients.

“Picking up—,” John echoed in confusion. “What? No.” Had Sherlock already decided that they could no longer live together? Even after John had told him that he wanted to make up, that he was sorry? Would Sherlock, after confessing his feelings, really throw away a chance of reconciliation just like that? That didn’t make sense. What the hell was going on here?

Sherlock leaned his shoulder against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. There was nothing nonchalant about the gesture. Instead, he looked like he would collapse from exhaustion if the door wasn’t there to support his body like a fellow soldier backing a wounded comrade. “What else are you here for then?”

“Why is everyone asking me what I’m doing here?” John said more harshly than he had intended to, regretting it immediately as Sherlock visibly flinched. More calmly, he added: “This is my flat, too. My name’s on the lease. I surely don’t need a reason to be in my own home, do I?”

“Home? I think you’ve forfeited the right to call this your home when you just left without a word.” Sherlock’s eyes, less criminative than his utterance but infinitely sadder, pinned John firmly to the ground but couldn’t keep his overcharged synapses from finally snapping.

“ _Me?”_ This time Sherlock didn’t flinch although John nearly shouted now. _“_ It wasn’t me who just stormed out, it wasn’t me who didn’t pick up his bloody phone! Have you any idea how worried I was? And what do you mean without a word? I’ve told you that I’d be out and that I’d come back to talk things over. That is more than you had the courtesy to tell me.”

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock said irritably and emerged from the shadowy kitchen.

“Of course, I did. And I texted you at least five times before that. But you didn’t respond, not even when I begged you to, to know that you were okay and not hit by a car or getting a fix or—” John stopped to dig out his phone and shoved his texting history in Sherlock’s face. “See?”

For a few seconds, Sherlock’s eyes stumbled through the messages John had sent him, shining icy blue in the display’s cold light.

“You texted me?” he finally aspirated, giving up the protection of his crossed arms.

“Oh, come on, don’t act like you didn’t get them,” John said, cramming his phone back into his pocket and retreating to a safe position several feet away from Sherlock. “You declined my call, so I know you had your phone on you.”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. He seemed to shrink, to slowly shrivel to a ghostly image of the brilliant energetic man John knew.

“What do you mean?” This sudden change of demeanour alarmed John more than the accusations. What did he miss here?

“I didn’t have my phone on me when you send that text.”

“What?”

“I… might have dropped it in the Thames,” Sherlock said sheepishly and let his head hang.

“Oh.” John didn’t know how else to respond to this timid version of Sherlock. It physically hurt him to see him like this, small and ashamed and so very exhausted. As much as the day had taken its toll on John, it had certainly not spared Sherlock either—if he hadn’t received that last text, if he had found the flat empty upon his return, after such a huge fight.

“You—You thought I had just… left you?” John asked, at last, carefully weighing his words. He didn’t want to push him away any further. Sherlock didn’t answer nor did he show any other sign that he had heard him. “I would never do that, Sherlock.”

Dark curls were drawn away from overflowing eyes as a head was raised again. “You will eventually.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you will want a relationship. Maybe not today or tomorrow or even a year from now, but someday you’ll want a woman in your life again, a mother for Rosie, a family.” Sherlock’s voice steadied with every word, calluses forming around a raw soul.

“I already have a family.”

“No, I mean, a real family. Not a makeshift arrangement with your sociopathic flatmate. This was never meant to be permanent, I get that now. And that’s okay.” Sherlock’s lips turned into a disillusioned smile. “Why would you settle for that?”

At the sight, John’s heart hit the ground, a heavy thud muffled by the carpet. With the force of a million missed opportunities, pent-up for far too long and now finally breaking loose, he cried: “Because I love you, Sherlock. In every way possible. In every way one person can love another and a thousand ways more. I love you so much that it scares me to death, that it shakes me to my core. I am terrified. But, God, I love you and I don’t want anyone else to raise Rosie with me. You two are the only family I will ever need.”

Sherlock froze and looked at him like John had just struck him with lightning, eyes wide in shock, but John kept going, unable to stop the words that had waited so long to be uttered: “I know that I’ve hurt you, I never meant to, you have to believe me. I don’t know why it took so bloody long for me to get it. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m so sorry that I put you through this and that I pushed you away like that last night. I was just so shocked and didn’t realize what I was doing and—Christ, Sherlock, I am so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I know that it doesn’t excuse what a complete arse I was and I know that I can’t make up for it. And I understand if this is all too little too late and you are done with me but I needed you to know that I love you even if you never want to see me again. I would totally understand that. You must hate me and you surely have every right to.”

“But I don’t.” The three little syllables hung in the air between the two men and glistened with hope. John’s heart nearly stumbled over them and made him hold his breath for a second.

“You don’t?” he susurrated, his voice having lost all strength in his confession.

“Of course, I don’t.” Sherlock’s voice, too, was barely more than a whisper but the words reverberated from every corner of John’s body, leaving soft varicoloured marks all over him. “I love you too.”

Mellow smiles and bashful looks being traded, John cautiously closed the distance between them since Sherlock seemed still unable to move his limbs.

“You do?”

“Of course, I do. Probably since the day I met you. It was always you, John, always just you.”

John now stood so close that Sherlock’s relieved breath ghosted over his skin. Ever so cautiously, he let his fingers close around Sherlock’s and felt him tense minutely under his touch. John looked up and saw something in those iridescent eyes short-circuiting. Before he could do or say anything else, Sherlock collapsed into his arms, his exhaustion finally overwhelming him, dragging him into unconsciousness. John’s knees almost gave out as the unexpected weight of Sherlock’s body hit him but he managed to lower both of them carefully to the floor, steadying Sherlock's head with one hand on the back of his neck.

“Sherlock?”

As he finally opened his eyes again, they shone with confusion and panic before finding John’s. Something calmed in Sherlock’s face, making him look young and innocent and whole. John had never seen him like this, not even with Rosie, and wished with all of his heart that this expression, this softness that was only meant for him, would never vanish again.

“John.” Even the way Sherlock pronounced his name was softer, full of warmth and honey-sweet devotion. No one else was ever allowed to use his name again, John decided. No one but Sherlock with his velvety baritone and plush lips and that softness, this all-new sensation of truth, on his face.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“What am I doing on the floor?”

“You fainted.” John couldn’t stop a smirk forming around his mouth despite his worry. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

“Breakfast. Yesterday,” Sherlock confessed after a beat.

“My God, Sherlock, I thought we had sorted this out: You need to eat. I really can’t leave you alone, can I?”

“Apparently not,” Sherlock grinned stupidly. “Ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait is over guys, they have made it! :) The following chapters will mostly consist of fluff and smut (and a lot of firsts) with just very little angst when touching upon some of the subjects that might strain a relationship as complicated and weighed with past mistakes as this. But I can assure you: They are never going to let go of each other from now on. If you want to, you can stop reading now :D But please don't! I would hate to go the rest of the way without all of you. Your kudos and comments have kept me motivated over the past weeks like nothing I could have imagined before starting this fic <3 Thank you all so much!


	15. Sherlock's Chapter: Proper Etiquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, this is a date?”
> 
> “Innit?”
> 
> “I take your word for it. This is hardly my area of expertise, John,” Sherlock said with an apologetic smile. Having uttered his concerns, at least to some extent, seemed to change the air between them, rendered it mellower, homelier, and gave Sherlock the strength to open up. Under his breath, he added: “I don’t know how to do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, fellow Johnlockers :)
> 
> This chapter is rather short but I hope you'll still enjoy it.  
> I wanted to thank you all for accompanying me thus far, making this journey such an amazing experience for me--as a writer and as a person. You all have a very special place in my heart <3
> 
> This chapter's song:  
> [Lauren Aquilina, Fools](https://youtu.be/uodUCtmCRME)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Proper Etiquette

_Friends, I watched us as we changed._

_The feelings in my headspace rearranged._

_I want you more than I've wanted anyone._

_Isn't that dangerous?_

 

Lauren Aquilina, Fools

 

Everything looked exactly the same as they entered Angelo’s—and still, all was changed. The tables, the bar, the walls—everything was warmer and brighter and full of promise. Or maybe it was just the way John shone, how his weary face was glowing from deep within, illuminating, radiating. Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He had been so wrong. John wasn’t simply his conductor—he was light himself, his fixed star, his sun: the centre of his universe.

One of the waiters guided them to their usual booth at the window and then went to fetch Angelo. The owner never missed an opportunity to greet Sherlock. Over the years, this had become a routine, a ritual even, but tonight everything was new and exciting and… actually a bit scary. Sherlock hadn’t felt like this since the first time he had brought John here. On that fateful night, he had panicked, too, had rejected John in a way that had embarrassed them both terribly. Sherlock couldn’t count the times he had thought about this interaction—well, of course, he could count but what was the use in that? He couldn’t mess up now. Not this time.

As Sherlock was about to take off his coat, he felt John’s hands on his shoulders, helping him out of it in a gallant gesture that made Sherlock’s blood rush to his cheeks. John had never done that before, at least not for Sherlock. For his girlfriends, yes…

They sat down, John around the corner from him as usual, but Sherlock was sure that there normally was more space between them. Their knees and calves were brushing against one another under the table and the thin fabric of Sherlock’s trousers was only a futile barrier against that staggering sensation.

Being close to John had always been demanding for Sherlock, a challenge for his mind and body alike. Bearing his touch—ever too faint, too little, too platonic—was torture and yet something Sherlock wouldn’t renounce for all in the world. Too delicious were the surges of electricity that set his nerves alight wherever John’s body bordered on his. But now, there was a new meaning, a new depth in those formerly innocent brushes of limbs against limbs, skin against skin. And Sherlock wasn’t sure how he could ever handle that. His whole body already quivered with heat and an uncomfortable lightness that made him worry about fainting again. That couldn’t happen. Once had already entailed a level of embarrassment sufficient for the next decade or two.

Sherlock hoped his inner turmoil went unnoticed. He didn’t want John to know about the way his insides squirmed around like a dozen pythons, even less so since John seemed to be perfectly fine. He just fixated Sherlock with those luminous eyes and let his tongue slip out to wet his lips a little too often.

A few seconds of silent stares passed and a distressing thought crossed Sherlock’s mind, making his lungs temporarily quit their duty: John probably expected him to talk. About things, about _them_ even. After all, there was a gigantic number of issues to be addressed: their love confessions, their relationship status, their level of physical intimacy, when and whom to tell about this, how to handle cases from now on,… Questions and concerns whirred around Sherlock’s head like a swarm of hornets, a roaring, all-consuming buzzing that smothered him. How was he supposed to handle this? He wasn’t good at these human things. That was John’s area. He needed John to guide him. Without him, Sherlock was lost, bereft of his senses, stumbling about blindly, deafly, numbly. The last twenty-four hours had altered their relationship forever. Surely, there were some ground rules Sherlock didn’t know about, ground rules he would most certainly break without even meaning to. This was uncharted territory for him, terrifying and possibly deadly uncharted territory. His heart drummed in his throat, only goading the hornets on further with its savage rhythm. One of them, all of them, would sting him eventually, would inject him with their venom until his body would collapse under the pain.

A friendly voice pulled Sherlock out of his panicking head and back into the comfortably dim light of the restaurant. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. I’m fine,” Sherlock managed to reply.

He blinked rapidly at John who, in return, gave him a slightly concerned look and placed a tender hand on Sherlock’s forearm. His muscles twitched involuntarily under the touch, making John retreat his comforting fingers in an instant. Sherlock winced even more at the loss of warmth on his arm and reached suppliantly for John’s hand—in vain. At this very moment, Angelo’s chunky figure approaching their table attracted John’s attention.

“Sherlock, John,” boomed the restaurant’s owner and shook their hands vigorously, a grin lighting up his broad, bearded face, “so good to see you. How have you boys been? How’s little Rosie?”

Sherlock caught only half of the pleasantries and stories about their kids John and Angelo exchanged. He focused all his mental energy on regaining control over his heartbeat and breathing as long as John was still occupied with something else. He needed to calm down, to keep his composure or John would mistake his nervousness for discomfort or worse. Counting the duration of each breath he took— _1.03 seconds in, 0.64 seconds out; 2.12 seconds in, 1.83 seconds out_ —Sherlock gradually overruled his body’s screaming alarms. He had dismantled an entire criminal network in only two years, for fuck’s sake, why did this night feel so much more demanding? _Because you are hopeless in social situations, Brother dear,_ said Mycroft’s voice, although not as caustically as usual. _All this sentiment. I’ve warned you._

Had someone just said his name? Sherlock emerged from the depths of his insecurities and concentrated on his surroundings again. Bemusedly, he noticed that both Angelo and John had turned to him. Apparently, they expected him to comment on something he hadn’t paid attention to. “Hm?”

“What do you want to eat?” John repeated the question to Sherlock’s relief and slid the weekly changing menu over to him. Sherlock scanned it quickly and then ordered one of the homemade pasta dishes without much consideration. Food was one of his smallest concerns right now.

“Sounds good, I’ll take the same,” John said light-heartedly. “Want to share a bottle of wine?”

“Sure,” Sherlock replied with a shrug for lack of a better answer although he really wasn’t sure if drinking was a good idea. Alcohol could either soothe him or make this a hundred times worse.

John consulted the wine list and chose a Pino Gris. Having written down their orders, Angelo gave them a fatherly nod and turned to leave for the kitchen. He would prepare their meals himself as he did every time despite John and Sherlock’s constant reassurance that it wasn’t necessary.

“Angelo,” John quickly added with a smile Sherlock couldn’t quite classify, “could you get us a candle for the table? It’s more romantic.”

Sherlock shot John a dumbfounded look but Angelo simply beamed and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, anything for Sherlock and his friends.”

“Actually, I’m his date.”

John grinned and cocked his head at Sherlock as Angelo moved his massive figure with surprising speed to fetch their candle. Sherlock was convinced they wouldn’t need it—his bright-red face was probably radiating enough heat and light for the whole restaurant. Seconds later, Angelo returned with their candle and an insinuating wink that made Sherlock’s flight instinct fully switch on again. He had barely ever been this uncomfortable. Why did John have to drag him here of all places, here where people knew them? He had understood that he needed to eat something, even that going out was their only option since their fridge was shamefully empty. But, still, did it have to be Angelo’s? He cleared his throat but couldn’t get rid of the embarrassment that wrapped around his neck like a too tight scarf.

“So, this is a date?”

“Innit?”

“I take your word for it. This is hardly my area of expertise, John,” Sherlock said with an apologetic smile. Having uttered his concerns, at least to some extent, seemed to change the air between them, rendered it mellower, homelier, and gave Sherlock the strength to open up. Under his breath, he added: “I don’t know how to do this.”

“What?”

“All of this. Dating. Relationships. I don’t know how to… not mess this up. I don’t want to make things awkward.”

“First dates are supposed to be a bit awkward,” John said jokingly, getting serious again upon Sherlock’s pained expression. “There’s no need to worry, Sherlock. We’ve known each other for years now and we’ve been here a hundred times. You don’t have to do anything differently—except for eating for once.”

John’s encouraging laugh failed to cheer up Sherlock.

“Listen,” John began again, “I know you are nervous because you don’t usually do this. That’s fine, really. I haven’t gone out with a man before either, especially not with a man I’ve been madly in love with for years without having the courage to do something about it. This is all new for me, too, okay? We can figure this out together.”

“But you know how all of this works. You’ve been on dates before, hundreds of them,” Sherlock whinged, pulling his lips into a pout.

“Oi! It wasn’t hundreds.”

“Still, you are definitely more experienced in this area than I am. I don’t want to cross some invisible border or accidentally hurt you or do something wrong just because I don’t know anything about romantic entanglement. There is so much at stake—our life as we know it and Rosie’s and The Work and… I will most certainly mess this up and then you will hate me and I will lose you—”

“Sherlock, calm down. It’s alright.”

“Can you please just tell me what you want? Please.”

“You need data?”

“I need data.”

“Okay, well, let me think,” John said, letting his tongue slip out between his lips again. “Every relationship is unique, so, if one of us isn’t comfortable with something we can just say so, alright?”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Sherlock quickly waved aside the preliminaries, “now, tell me.”

“I don’t need any drastic changes. I want to keep living with you, share a bed with you, just continue our life together. But… I’d like to touch you.” John paused, waiting for Sherlock’s reaction. When the other remained quiet, he continued: “I’ve noticed that that’s not something you’re particularly fond of and that’s totally fine with me, whether you just need time to get used to it or don’t like that at all. I won’t pressure you into anything. It’s just… you wanted to know.” He raised his hands in an appeasing gesture before falling silent.

The waiter brought their drinks, interrupting John’s expectant hush. After John had tasted the wine and the waiter had left again, Sherlock finally took a deep breath and forced out a single sentence: “I would like that.”

“What?”

“You touching me.”

“You would?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s incredulous expression. “Past experiences strongly suggest so. I don’t tense up because I don’t like being touched by you. I do like it, a lot. It’s just… so intense, too intense sometimes.”

Something shifted in John’s eyes at his words. “Is that why you fainted? Because I touched you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” John’s brow furrowed in deep thought.

“But I like it, I really do,” Sherlock hastily added. “And I want to touch you, too. I just don’t think I would be any good at it.”

“You’re a genius with extensive knowledge of the human body. I’m sure you can manage.”

“Well, you’re a doctor and a known philanderer. I don’t think I stand a chance against that.”

John’s laughter filled the booth and Sherlock joined in, at last, unable to fight the chuckle making its way out of his chest. John always made things easier for him, always found a way to soothe his spiralling mind. God, how he adored him.

Filled with a sudden wave of fearlessness, Sherlock asked: “Can I try?”

At once, John’s laughter ebbed away into a tender smile and his eyes softened. “Of course.”

Cautiously, Sherlock moved his fingers across the table until they hovered over John’s. As skin sank onto skin, a familiar electrifying titillation spread through Sherlock’s veins but, this time, he didn’t wince. Instead, his whole body melted into the feeling of John’s warm hand beneath his, muscles relaxing, air escaping his lungs in a satisfied sigh.

John eyed him curiously and slowly began to rub Sherlock’s fingers with his thumb. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, resisting the urge to close his eyes in pleasure. This featherlight touch had every nerve in his body singing with comfort. He could stay like this forever.

As the waiter returned with their food, Sherlock all but growled, clinging onto John’s hand just a little longer before reluctantly releasing it. The two plates the waiter put down in front of them just didn’t seem worth the sacrifice of letting go of John—no matter how luscious the homemade tagliatelle looked, bathed in that ridiculously thick creamy sauce. Well, maybe holding hands could wait for a few minutes, Sherlock thought, his mouth watering. The days when he had been able to go without food for half a week or longer were definitely over.

He felt John’s pleased gaze on him as he dug into the pasta and chewed with a probably less dignified but all the happier expression on his face. Sherlock had barely ever been able to relate to John’s indulgence concerning food but, oh, this was good. After a few minutes filled with almost desperate bites that satisfied the worst cravings, John put down his fork, raised his wine glass, and indicated Sherlock to follow suit.

“To great food and even better company,” he said with a bright smile.

“The best,” Sherlock replied endearingly, clinking their glasses. A glow of pink tinged John’s cheeks as they both took a sip. John’s choice had been a good one: The wine was flavourful and sweet, perfectly complementing their dish. After another sip, Sherlock felt it drip into his still half-empty stomach and rush directly into his bloodstream. He hummed approvingly.

“Good?” John asked with a proud twinkling in his eyes.

“Very.” Already having filled his mouth with another fork full of tagliatelle, Sherlock added: “Great idea of you to come here.” He actually meant it.

“Well, usually I wouldn’t have chosen a restaurant where neither of us has to pay but I didn’t exactly have time to make a reservation anywhere else,” John chuckled.

“What’s wrong with free dinner?”

“Nothing at all. I just would’ve liked to treat you to it.”

“Why?”

“It’s just something you’re supposed to do on a date, as a gentleman, you know.”

Sherlock halted mid-munch. He hadn’t known that John cared about such old-fashioned traditions. But then again, he was a romantic. “What else are you supposed to do?”

“For once, you usually don’t say _I love you_ before even going on a few dates.”

Sherlock struggled to swallow the contents of his mouth that had suddenly turned from delicious food to tasteless mush. John’s face lit with realization as he raised his eyes to look at Sherlock and he quickly interjected his darkening thoughts: “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I’m not taking anything back. I do love you, Sherlock. I mean it. It’s just… extraordinary. But everything about our story is, innit?”

“I guess,” Sherlock admitted, then sheepishly adding: “Tell me again.”

John’s voice was calm and solemn as if uttering a sacred vow: “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I love you, John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy this fluffy little thing? I surely loved writing it :) As you can see, our boys are taking things slowly. I hope you don't lose your patience with them (or me).
> 
> Lots of love to every single one of you! <3


	16. John's Chapter: Clean Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I forgot to ask: What do you want, Sherlock? In this relationship, I mean.”
> 
> Sherlock stayed silent for a few seconds, his brow slightly furrowed in thought. “Honesty,” he finally stated. “I don’t know what else I want because I’ve never come this far with anyone really. But I know that I don’t want to pretend anymore. We’ve lied to ourselves, to each other, to everyone basically and look where it got us. I don’t want any more secrets between us.”
> 
> “Okay. That’s… good. You’re right. No more secrets. I promise, you can ask me anything and I’ll be honest with you.” John squeezed his hand encouragingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :)
> 
> We're getting closer to our happy ending but it wouldn't be as sweet without a little angst now, would it? ;)
> 
> **WARNING:** Sherlock and John both talk about their childhood traumas: mentions abuse, drug use, suicide.
> 
> This chapter's song is:
> 
>  
> 
> [Jon McLaughlin, Human ](https://youtu.be/6Pa3u2DR-_0)

# John’s Chapter: Clean Slate

_After all, we're only human,_

_Always fighting what we're feeling,_

_Hurt instead of healing._

_After all, we're only human._

_Is there any other reason why we stay instead of leavin' after all?_

 

Jon McLaughlin, Human.

 

The plates in front of them were finally empty, as was the first bottle of wine. John ordered another although the few glasses he had had were already humming in his bloodstream, filling his head with cotton-soft tiredness. It had been a hell of a day but he wasn’t ready to let this date end quite yet. The doubting voices in his head were still too loud, too convincing that this was all just a dream—because what was more likely: John dreaming all of this up or him actually having dinner with Sherlock, being allowed near him like this, holding his hand? And if it was all just a fantasy, John wanted it to last as long as possible.

Their fingers had found each other again as soon as the last bite of pasta had been swallowed and not let go since. The touch anchored John, provided proof, ever so small but nonetheless reliable, that this was really happening. His brain couldn’t possibly come up with such an intoxicating sensation on its own. _This is real. He is here with me. We’ve made it_.

The waiter brought their second bottle of Pinot Gris and obligingly asked if he could do anything else for them. John scanned the menu again before caringly looking at Sherlock. “Do you want dessert?”

“John, I can’t possibly eat another bite,” Sherlock said with a regretful tug of his lips.

“We’ll have the Panna Cotta with two spoons, please,” John told the waiter nonetheless and, upon Sherlock’s mouth opening to form an objection, he added: “You love Angelo’s Panna Cotta. I can’t let you go home without having it. It’s not getting wasted. I’ll eat anything you don’t, alright?”

Sherlock’s face lit up in a delightfully thankful smile and John positively beamed back. If his whole life from now on only consisted of taking care of Sherlock, of making sure that he was as content as he could be, of spoiling him rotten, it would be a life well lived. John would gladly start right now and not stop until his last breath. As long as Sherlock let him, John would make him happy.

“I forgot to ask: What do _you_ want, Sherlock? In this relationship, I mean.”

Sherlock stayed silent for a few seconds, his brow slightly furrowed in thought. “Honesty,” he finally stated. “I don’t know what else I want because I’ve never come this far with anyone really. But I know that I don’t want to pretend anymore. We’ve lied to ourselves, to each other, to everyone basically and look where it got us. I don’t want any more secrets between us.”

“Okay. That’s… good. You’re right. No more secrets. I promise, you can ask me anything and I’ll be honest with you.” John squeezed his hand encouragingly.

Sherlock lowered his gaze to their intertwined fingers. It was hard to tell where his ended and John’s began. “Where were you today? You said that you needed to take care of some things first. What did you do?”

“I went to Chelmsford—where I grew up—to visit my parents’ graves.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes widened the slightest bit before his face found a neutral expression again. John kept caressing his fingers to keep him calm just as much as himself. “You never told me about them.”

“It’s not something I like to occupy my thoughts with. It just makes me sad and angry and I’ve got enough other things to worry about usually,” John shrugged apologetically.

“You don’t have to tell me if it upsets you,” Sherlock said in such genuine compassion that John couldn’t help but give him another smitten smile. _So much for being a sociopath._

“No, it’s alright. You know, I’m not good at this stuff but… honesty.” John wet his lips and lowered his gaze for a moment, giving himself a decisive nod before starting to tell a story he had kept disclosed in his heart for the past decades, its sharp edges hardly abraded by time and whiskey: “My Mom… She was brilliant, an amazing woman: loving and kind and funny. Terribly stubborn though. My Dad was working construction when they met and her folks didn’t deem that good enough for her. But she broke with her family and married him anyway. That’s just who she was. They had Harry and then me, and we were a happy little family in a small terraced house. And I played in the street or in one of the gardens with Harry and my friends and when we’d come home we’d have dinner together, the four of us. And Dad would tell bad jokes and Mom would laugh—such a light, clear sound—and kiss us good-night and sometimes dance with us in the living room… I loved her so much. She passed when I was twelve. Breast cancer.”

John nodded again, biting the inside of his lip to keep the tears at bay. There had been a time when he was forced to form these words on a regular basis. After all these years, it still hurt—not like the fresh, life-changing cut it had been but like scar tissue that never healed properly and now stung even under the most sensitive of touches. Sherlock, too, blinked rapidly but stayed silent.

When he eventually opened his mouth, their Panna Cotta arrived and stirred the stale sorrow that had settled on their backs. John knew he couldn’t let go of Sherlock now even if he wanted to. He pulled him closer and Sherlock willingly slid around the corner of the table until they were perched tightly together, their sides aligned in comforting contact. John grabbed one of the spoons with his less trained right hand and awkwardly loaded it with a mouthful of the creamy dessert. Sherlock didn’t so much as give him a questioning glance as John raised the spoon to feed him. The warmth between them returned tenfold as they sat there—sharing smiles and their dessert, both soothingly sweet. In between bites—John only ate every third or fourth anyway—he continued his story, sustained by the feeling of Sherlock’s silky curls tingling against his ear.

“When we found out, it was already too late. The cancer had spread, there were metastases everywhere. It only took three months—no chemo, no radiation therapy. She didn’t want any of that, wanted to go out on her own terms, without having to suffer through all of that. We had time to say goodbye at least. And after she was gone, everything just fell apart. Dad couldn’t handle the grief, started drinking. He and Harry bickered constantly. She was never a particularly easy child and, as a teenager, it only got worse. He hit her. Quite often. Two years later, when she came out to us, he just kicked her out. Told her to pack her things and leave—or else.” John swallowed heavily under Sherlock’s horrified gaze. He was incredibly thankful that they sat somewhat separated from the rest of the restaurant.

“Did he get violent around you, too?” Sherlock’s voice matched the dismay on his face.

“Just once. When he caught me kissing another boy,” John said with enunciatively raised eyebrows and Sherlock gave an understanding yet pitying sigh. “For the next four years, I walked on eggshells, making sure nothing ever upset him. And when I finally finished school and got into King’s College, I left. And never looked back. I worked two jobs and got a loan to put myself through Uni without his support. It was hard but I managed. I was in Afghanistan when he died. Didn’t go to the funeral. Didn’t even see the grave till today.”

“Why did you go today?”

“I wanted to confront him, tell him everything I never did while he was alive—about my bisexuality and how his behaviour fucked me up. And how I am done being someone I’m not just to avoid his anger and disappointment. I needed to get that out of the way before I talked to you. That’s why I visited Mary’s grave as well, to get her blessing, you know. And I met Harry for coffee. You should have seen her face when I told her that I’m bi… She could barely contain herself. I just wanted to get everything out, wipe the slate clean. We don’t need all this emotional baggage weighing us down, don’t you think?”

Sherlock nodded though John was not quite sure if he could relate to this kind of sentimental cleansing. He normally couldn’t either. “I understand. It feels good to get these things off your chest.”

John raised his brows in silent question and put the spoon down.

“I spent half of last night spilling my guts to Molly and Greg,” Sherlock explained with an embarrassed grin.

“So, that’s where you went,” John exclaimed in a chuckle. He should’ve guessed it: Whenever he and Sherlock fell out, Molly was the one person Sherlock called on to complain. “Well, they could’ve at least called me to let me know you were alive and hadn’t jumped off a bridge or something,” he added mock-grumpily. In his amusement, John almost missed the pained and distinctly guilty expression on Sherlock’s face. _Did he—?_ His smile dropped.

“Sherlock, what—?”

“Nothing happened,” he interrupted him. “I’m happy, healthy, and alive.”

“What did you do?” John finished his question, his voice barely audible above the drumming of his heartbeat that had been startled into a hard, anxious rhythm.

“I was wandering through London and I ended up on Vauxhall Bridge,” Sherlock began to explain.

“And you—what—just thought you’d jump off? Just like that? You were ready to put me through this— _again_?” Familiar anger sizzled through John’s veins now and he withdrew his hand. Images of Sherlock’s soaked figure being dragged out of the river rose in his head. How could he even think about doing something like this to him?

“I didn’t think you’d care anymore. I read your note again,” Sherlock said detachedly.

“What note?”

“The one you had Molly give to me after Mary’s death.”

The realization hit John like a cannonball. The note. That bloody note. _You should have just stayed dead_. Of all the things that had happened between them, this one came back to haunt him now. Of all the things he had done to him… He could have lost him last night. For real and forever. The sharp pain of that thought constricted his lungs. It would’ve been his fault. He had driven him to this.

“A cab driver pulled me back, anyways,” Sherlock added, his voice still void of all emotion.

“Let me get this straight: If some random guy hadn’t stopped you, I would be planning another one of your funerals right now?” John said, his voice enhanced by the wave of belated panic that swept through him and mixed with the fury—equally directed at Sherlock and himself.

As he raised his hand to bury his face in it to hide his despair, Sherlock… flinched. It was this unconscious reaction that broke John at last. His worst nightmare became true in front of his eyes: Sherlock was afraid of him. And he had every right to. Tears of hot guilt wet his fingers as he pressed them into his eyes. Sherlock had told him all the things he had done for him, the anguish he had endured because of him over the past years—but he hadn’t even mentioned all the pain John had consciously inflicted on him. Yes, John had told Harry about it but he had yet to make amends. Sherlock still believed that he had meant all of it. And it had almost cost them everything.

“Sherlock, I… I didn’t— I don’t ever want you to do anything like that. You have to promise me. No matter what happens between us: There is no way that I would ever be okay with something like that. Please, you have to promise me. I should’ve never written that note. You were absolutely right: I was cruel to you; on so many occasions that one life isn’t enough to make up for it but I’ll try and I’ll love you and…” He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s who blankly stared back. “I won’t ever hurt you like that again, I promise. You’ll never have reason to doubt my love for you again, do you hear me? I will love you—endlessly and unconditionally. I know it doesn’t mean a thing just to say it so I will prove it, Sherlock, every day for as long as you let me. Whatever you want, I will give to you. I’m all yours. But you have to promise me something, too, alright? Promise me that you’ll stay alive long enough for me to prove my worth. Promise me that you’ll allow yourself to be taken care of, to _be loved_. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock’s long dark lashes sank onto his cheeks, his voice hoarse and so small: “I don’t know.”

The words severed John’s bones like a rusty chainsaw. He couldn’t bear to hear this, he simply couldn’t. This was supposed to be the start, not the end.

“I don’t think I am capable of being loved, John,” Sherlock whispered.

“What makes you think that?” How could such a beautiful, brilliant man deem himself unlovable?

“When I left last night, some memories came up that I had successfully suppressed for the better part of the last twenty years. And they delivered convincing evidence…”

“What memories?”

Sherlock squirmed at his side but John didn’t budge. “What memories, Sherlock? Honesty, remember?”

The story—about Alex, about broken promises, about a dark path leading into drugs—that hit John’s ears in dull words now made his mind spin in nauseating circles. His thoughts passed a day, a few weeks ago, when a trembling Sherlock had wept into his shoulder in the neon-lit hall of a Norfolk police precinct. It had resurfaced then, John knew, come up and clawed its way back into Sherlock’s conscious thoughts—this abysmal trauma. He should’ve addressed it. Once more, he had missed the mark—as a doctor, as a friend. And he understood—why Sherlock had taken all the pain for all these years before finally snapping, why he had willingly accepted every beating, every insult, every heartbreak. Because Sherlock was utterly and unbendingly convinced that he deserved nothing more, that abuse masked as selfishly distorted affection was enough, that true love wasn’t meant for him.

John threw one arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug that the other readily sank into. He would show Sherlock how wrong he was. He would prove to him how loved he was until the image of this Alex was nothing but a faded scar on kiss-covered skin—even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Did you ever see him again?” John pressed out as calmly as he could muster although _Give me his full name, I’m going to kill him_ corresponded much better to his momentary mood.

“Once. When I did my master’s. I ran into him on campus. He didn’t even recognize me. I had been clean for three years but that day…” Sherlock lowered his head again, his stumbling breaths ghosting over John’s neck.

“Did the memories trigger you last night, too?”

“Yes. It just was… too much. I stopped on that bridge and searched my wallet for money to buy some. And then I found your note and I just… couldn’t take it anymore. I’m sorry, John.”

“I know, love. I’m sorry, too. We’ll have to take better care of each other from now on, okay? I couldn’t stand to lose you. Not now that we finally got our shit together, not ever actually.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Sherlock said exhaustedly, his fingers crawling up John’s wrist and tugging at his sleeve to tighten the hug. “I love you so much, John.”

“I love you too.”

They stayed put in their embrace for blissful, silent minutes until another thought crossed John’s mind. “Were you already on that bridge when I called you?”

Sherlock wiggled in his arm. “Yes.”

“And then you dropped your phone in the Thames?”

“It was less a drop than a toss, to be honest.”

John couldn’t help but laugh, a hearty honest laugh.

“What?” Sherlock asked curiously and moved to look at John.

“You are such a drama queen.”

“I am not!” His adorable pout made John giggle even more.

“Yes, you are. Throwing an 800 £ phone into the Thames just because you don’t want to talk to someone. That is textbook drama!”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile and John had to divert his gaze to stop himself from pinning Sherlock against the back of the bench and snogging him senseless.

Instead, he swallowed and said: “One good thing comes from that: I won’t have to hear Irene Adler’s bloody text message alert ever again.”

“Dear God, will you just let it go already?” Sherlock said immediately with an exasperated eye roll. “Irene and I are just… friends or something resembling that, at least. There was nothing going on between us, ever. Unlike you, I have zero interest in women.”

“Right, okay, you don’t. But she did flirt with you…”

“Are you trying to tell me witnessing that hurt you? Because I can assure you I know how that feels.”

“Right, I’m sorry,” John said seriously with a gentle stroke across Sherlock’s shoulder. “I haven’t even apologized for the whole thing at the park yet. I was such an idiot. I just panicked when you started talking about me quitting my job and you just looked so adorable in the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.”

“And yet, you texted her.”

“Yeah, well, about that…” John reached for his jacket and pulled his phone out. He opened another chat and showed Sherlock his texting history once more:

 

 

“Wow, her grammar is abhorrent. Who doesn’t know the difference between your and you’re?” Sherlock said after reading the texts with quite a smug smile on his face.

“I know. That went on for the whole evening.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Have you read those texts? That’s embarrassing and I didn’t want you to get any wrong ideas. I didn’t know you would start a fight like that.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed so John hurried to say: “I totally deserved that. And I promise you that I won’t flirt with anyone ever again—except for you, of course.”

“Never?”

“Why would I when I have the most beautiful human being on this planet right here by my side?”

Sherlock lowered his gaze bashfully but John could sense that something was still bothering him.

“But what if you miss being with a woman someday?” Sherlock asked in a low voice after a beat. “I can’t give you that. I can’t compete with that.”

“Look at me, love.” Sherlock hesitantly raised his iridescent eyes to meet John’s. They never ceased to amaze him with their range of colour. “Being with you has been the only thing I wanted for the past eight years. And it is everything I want for all my years to come. I’m so done agonizing myself because of your sex. I fell in love with you as a person. You don’t have to worry about any kind of comparison or that I’m lacking anything. Whether you’re male or female, whether we have sex all the time or not even once—As long as we’re together, there is nothing else I could wish for. Alright?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock squeezed back in affirmation. “Alright.”

“Now, could you hand me your wallet, please?” John asked, a sudden thought striking his mind.

“John, we don’t have to pay. And if we did, I thought you wanted to treat me to dinner?” Sherlock mocked but still pulled his wallet out of his coat pocket. John took it and swiftly rummaged through its folds until he found what he was looking for: the note. Even with his poor deduction skills, he perceived how often it had been unfolded. Sherlock must have read this at least a dozen times. The sight stung with fresh guilt but John fought it down.

“I feel like we’ve piled up all our past mistakes and shortcomings right here, all our doubts and fears,” he said, fixing his gaze on Sherlock while firmly planting his hand on his back. “And I don’t want any of that stuff in our life when we’re moving forward. Together. As you said: No more secrets. No more hurting. Let’s just leave all of it behind us, for a fresh start.”

Sherlock watched in surprise as John held the note carefully over the flame of the candle until it caught fire. He dropped it on their empty dessert plate where it crumbled to ashes in seconds. “I don’t want you to look at that ever again. I know I can’t undo the past that easily but I will spend my present and my future making up for it. If that is what you want.”

Sherlock poured them each a fresh glass of wine before turning to John again, a smile on his lips—calm and affectionate. He raised his glass and his words rang in John’s chest, golden rays of sunlight: “It's always you, John, you're everything I want."


	17. Sherlock's Chapter: Take Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're out on a date, what comes after dinner? Sherlock will find out soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest readers,
> 
> this chapter is relatively short but I hope I can make up for it with the enormous amount of fluff I stuffed in there! :D I had such fun writing this, you have no idea.
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Natalie Taylor, Surrender](https://youtu.be/5Mrz8t0FCIc)
> 
> (I stole this one from Jane the Virgin... along with the general aesthetic ;) )

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Take Me Home

_Whenever you're ready, whenever you're ready_

_Can we, can we surrender?_

_Can we, can we surrender?_

_I surrender._

 

Natalie Taylor, Surrender.

 

“So, when you’re on a date—what happens after dinner?” Sherlock asked. He had pondered that question for some time now, without coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Even with sufficient data, the problem would be hard to solve. Ever since John had re-entered their flat, things tended to go in any direction but the one he anticipated. He was unable to prepare, to think past the next sentence of their interaction—which was enthralling but also extremely unsettling. Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective, usually five to seven steps ahead of any person he talked to, was incapable of planning his next move. He simply didn’t know what to do—and he didn’t like not knowing.

“I walk them back to their flat. To make sure they get home safely,” John said as he slid the twenty-pound tip for their waiter under his empty wine glass and grabbed his jacket.

“And maybe get invited in for _coffee_?” Sherlock marked the last word with air quotes to underline his sarcasm, desperately hoping that John wouldn’t recognize it as the futile attempt in masking his insecurity it was. John didn’t need to know how nervous he was about this part of the night—all honesty aside.

“I thought you didn’t know how those things work,” John laughed and the wink he gave with it sent Sherlock stumbling over his own feet instead of gracefully skirting the table. Thankfully, John was too busy putting on his jacket to notice or at least polite enough to ignore his clumsiness.

“I’m inexperienced but I haven’t lived under a rock for the past thirty-six years. I’ve seen movies,” Sherlock grumbled as he tied his scarf. Before he could grab his coat, steady hands were already holding it up to help him slip it on, lingering on his shoulders for sweet seconds. Somewhere in Sherlock’s head, Mycroft raised his eyebrows with a belittling click of his tongue at John’s repeated courtesy but Sherlock couldn’t care less. Whatever false sense of pride might’ve been hurt by these gestures—it had been washed away by wine and shared secrets.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of movies you’ve watched but the majority of dates don’t end that way,” John said as he ran his hands over Sherlock’s arms before turning to the door, his voice still vibrating with amusement. “Most times, a good-night kiss is as far as people go on the first date. And only if it was a good date.”

“I’ll have to trust you on that matter,” Sherlock replied more to himself, already lost in thought. _A good-night kiss._

They stepped out onto the cold street. It was barely past nine and the dark air buzzed with people visiting bars and restaurants. A group of merrily chattering women passed and eyed them both, their interested gazes injecting Sherlock’s mind with an unpleasant thought. He busied his hands by turning up his collar as they directed their steps back to Baker Street.

“John,” he said, still unsure how to phrase his request,” I just wanted to say… I know you care about appearances and what people think and all that—” _nonsense, rubbish, shit_ “—stuff. I’m comfortable with anything when it comes to you but I’m not really sure what’s… appropriate and don’t want to embarrass you so I propose you determine our level of displaying affection in public. I want you to decide—if that’s alright with you—whether to take my hand or—”

“Don’t mind if I do, love,” John said without a beat and intertwined their fingers in one smooth motion. With every additional time they touched, Sherlock’s body changed its reaction. The surges of tingling electricity didn’t lose their intensity but shifted into something warm and all the more addictive. Sherlock doubted he’d ever get accustomed to this intoxicating sensation of John’s hot skin against his own. He had always been a man of many vices but none of them had ever caused such a pleasant and positively nurturing reaction as touching John Watson. And for once, he couldn’t think of anything to keep him from happily succumbing to it.

After a few silent minutes in the chilly air that gave Sherlock’s brain the opportunity to adjust to the new high and regain full mental capacity, he said: “You… keep calling me that.”

“What?”

“Love.”

John shot him a quick glance that shone with such genuine embarrassment and surprise that Sherlock was convinced John hadn’t been fully aware of his slip. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“No, it’s… fine. I like it, actually. A lot.”

“You do? I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who’s fond of pet names.”

“It’s a nice diversion from the usual ‘git’, ‘twat’ or ‘cock’,” Sherlock said, bathing in the radiance of John’s laughter his words evoked. This sound, this gorgeous sound—he would never tire of hearing it.

“Are there other pet names you agree to?” John asked amidst his mirth.

“Any term of endearment you see fit.”

“Darling?”

“Yes.”

“Honey?”

“Sure.” Sherlock smiled, his mind instantly taking him to sweet tea and lush fields full of blooming flowers and bustling bees.

“Babe?”

“If you can say that with a straight face, alright.”

“What about _Sherl_?” John teasingly stretched the name into ridiculous lengths and Sherlock all but growled.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Sherly?”

“Shut up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn’t rid his lips off the grin that had sprouted on them.

“How about My Holmesboy? Or Sherlucky?” John kept teasing.

“I said shut up.”

Both violently giggling, they turned a corner and nearly bumped into another couple. Apologizing through his snicker, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand a little tighter and pulled him past the two and back to his side.

“What names do you prefer?” Sherlock asked as soon as they were out of earshot again.

“What names would you like to call me?” John replied with a mischievous grin and a sparkle in his eyes that made Sherlock’s knees a little wobbly. He quickly raised his gaze to the thickening clouds overhead. _Cumulonimbi_ , _ready to burst._

“I.. ehm… haven’t really thought about it. I don’t know any decent pet names, to be honest—none that fit you at least.” While he still looked up, the first few snowflakes began to dance around them, little wet dots settling on his nose and forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes, confident that John would safely guide him, and let the snowflakes get caught in his lashes. “You’re just my… my John.” His voice gave out under the weight of his worship.

John stopped, tenderly bringing Sherlock to a halt as well. Like a moon orbiting the sun, Sherlock turned until their bodies were fully aligned—pulled in by John’s own gravity or the grasp around his hand, he couldn’t tell. He took in the sight of the man before him, illuminated by a distant street lamp. There was something about the way the earth was slowly swallowed by winter’s white cloak, drowning out the noises of busy traffic around them, that made John’s eyes shine brighter, incandescent against the dark of the city. Sherlock inhaled deeply, drawing in the beauty and the glow of John Watson. _My sun, my light, my John._

“Your John? That is more than good enough for me.” John’s voice, as soft as the thickening snowfall, echoed in Sherlock’s ears, the only sound still audible, the only one that mattered. “Do you know… I’ve always hated my name except when you say it… the way you pronounce it—it always makes it sound so special.”

“It’s because you are special. To me.”

Sherlock let his free hand wander up John’s other wrist in wavering motion. The skin exposed to the icy air, without another hand—or at least a pocket—to shield it, was already alarmingly cold. Sherlock rubbed John’s fingers in diligent circles to restore some warmth in them. Nothing was allowed to harm this man, not even Mother Nature herself. He would be there to protect him now, with everything he had. He would keep him safe and warm and happy. _My love, my life, my John._

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John’s again and all but joined the snowflakes melting wherever they landed on skin and hair. There was that special something in those dark blue waters, that… look. He had caught glimpses of it—at the club on New Year’s, at Regent’s Park, at Angelo’s: Pupils soft and dilated to the size of a penny, lips slightly parted, …

The very second John raised up on his toes towards him, Sherlock said: “We should hurry to get home.” The next moment, his devotion-fogged mind caught up to the visual input but it was already too late. _Oh, no_. Instantly dropping back to his heels, John let his tongue slip out between his lips and directed his attention to the elements whirling around them.

“Right.”

Before Sherlock could do anything about it, the moment slipped from his hands to the ground and formed a dark-coloured mark on the freshly-fallen snow around their feet. He let their fingers part, at least on one hand, and they resumed their way to Baker Street with sped-up steps. Regret pecked at his insides like a crow looking for the best bites. Why did he have to ruin this perfect opportunity? _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Now John—careful, considerate John—wouldn’t start anything ever again. He needed to fix this.

Neither of them said another word until they passed the red awning of Speedy’s, already covered in a thin layer of snow. Sherlock gathered his courage.

“So, in regards to first dates,” he launched his first attempt at recreating a promising atmosphere, his voice as deep and velvety as his vocal chords allowed—which was pretty damn deep and velvety, to sing his own praise. “Do the rules alter when you’re already living in the same flat?” Apparently, he still failed.

“Don’t worry, love, we don’t have to rush anything,” John said with what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. He climbed the first step leading up to the door of 221B. Sherlock swallowed an exasperated sigh and stayed put, their still interwoven fingers pulling John back this time. With the elevation of the step, he was for once just as tall as Sherlock—if not even a few inches taller. Sherlock stared up at him in the unfamiliar angle and pulled him a little closer still. In the cold air, purified by snow, John’s breath ghosted over his face in an exhilaratingly scented mist—wine and dessert and delicious promises.

“This isn’t exactly rushing, John. I’ve waited years for this.”

“Are you sure?” John asked in barely more than a whisper, dropping his gaze to Sherlock’s mouth for a second.

"Yes."

Tentatively, John brought his other hand up to Sherlock’s chest, sliding up over the fabric in a slow stroke until he reached his cheek. He gently cupped Sherlock’s burning face with cold fingers and silently asked for permission once more.

Sherlock knew when his voice couldn’t be trusted, so he just nodded ever so slightly, unable to tear his eyes from John’s lips, surrounded by the day’s blond-grey stubble. His breath got caught somewhere in his chest as they came closer, closer…

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut as he met John in a tender kiss. It was barely more than a brush, just as soft as the landing snowflakes on his shoulders. Yet, the contact sent a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated bliss through his buzzing mind, washing away every single rational thought until just one word remained, one glorious syllable, chanted by every cell to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

_John. John. John. John. John. John._

He was all that existed, his name engraved on bones and nerves, and his lips on Sherlock’s. The sound of his blood rushed in his ears; a river, wild and dark and deep with desire. John’s smell, his taste, the way his unshaven skin rubbed on Sherlock’s; The universe dwindled to this one focal point with astounding speed. White lights danced behind his eyelids. Could emotional impact give you whiplash?

For a moment, Sherlock was sure that unconsciousness would overwhelm him once more—too intense was this divine sensation, too heavenly for a mortal to experience. How could one human heart handle such colossal amounts of love? And if he was to be ground by the sheer weight of such affection, pulverised, atomised—Sherlock would happily accept his fate as long as John was with him. As long as John would stay.

In some distant, forgotten corner of his being, he noticed tears swelling, mixing with the snowflakes in his lashes. Involuntarily, he let a little sob escape his throat. At the sound, he felt John withdraw, leaving his lips agonizingly vacant as they parted. All his nervous, deafening thoughts came flooding back into his head as if John had broken a damn by interrupting their contact. This was worse than all the cold turkeys Sherlock had endured combined.

He opened his eyes fast enough to see the dreamy expression on John’s face turn into confusion and then dismay as he beheld the tears shimmering on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“God, Sherlock, I’m sorry… I thought you’d—,” was all John got out before Sherlock pushed him up the second step and against the front door of 221B. Wrapping one arm around his waist, the other hand finding the nape of his neck under snow-wetted hair, Sherlock pressed their lips back together. John, mirroring his motion, buried his fingers in dark curls and pulled him closer, the softness yielding to almost desperate passion now. Teeth grazed Sherlock’s bottom lip and he pliantly let it drop to allow John access. A hot tongue met his own, tasting, exploring. And Sherlock’s mind fell silent again, coming undone under John’s kisses.

After a few seconds—or maybe months—they drew apart again, both gasping for air. Sherlock let his forehead rest on John’s and felt another tear of joy roll down and drop to John’s chin. A bright, somewhat relieved smile blossomed between them, forming a protective bubble of warmth and adoration against the snow storm.

“John,” Sherlock said, panting a little.

“Yes?”

“Would you like some… coffee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagined something like this <3 What about you?
> 
> As always: I appreciate every comment and kudos soooo much! Knowing that you are out there, reading this, is giving me so much strength and motivation. I can't thank you enough, every single one of you! <3 <3 <3


	18. John's Chapter: Perfect Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock want to get it on but there are some bumps in the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :)
> 
> We've finally arrived at the smutty part. Although I didn't write anything hardcore, anyone who isn't into anything explicit should get off now. You can skip the next two chapters without missing toooo much of the plot (though there is quite a bit of relationship development. The last one will be fluff again :)
> 
> **WARNING:** This chapter mentions past torture and abuse. Please be safe :)
> 
> This chapter's song is (a classic get-laid-song):  
> [Justin Nozuka, After Tonight](https://youtu.be/hgGkJez6pcM)

# John’s Chapter: Perfect Match

_Give me your right hand._

_I think I understand._

_Follow me and you will never have to wish again._

 

Justin Nozuka, After Tonight.

 

 

It took all of John’s self-control to let go of Sherlock and unlock the door. They both tiptoed up the stairs and expertly jumped the creaking fifth step to avoid any noises. Accidentally summoning Mrs. Hudson wasn’t a pleasant prospect—too many nosy questions, too many minutes wasted talking. Although their movements were exceptionally sneaky, it was a wonder that she didn’t hear the deafening thumping of John’s heartbeat, he pondered. He was convinced the whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it. John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin. The taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue, celestial and sweet as nectar, making every inch of his body scream for more, more, _more_.

As soon as the door to the flat shut behind them, John let all restraints go and grabbed Sherlock’s face again, covering his lips in eager kisses. He had been craving this all these years, nearly died of thirst without knowing it, and only drinking in Sherlock now could satisfy him, nurture him back to health. They barely managed to rid themselves off their snow-soaked jackets while they made it to the sofa, calves bumping against the coffee table. John slumped down, pulling Sherlock with him and unto his lap.

Panting heavily, their lips broke contact for a second to catch their breath as Sherlock straddled John’s hips and flung his arms around his neck. John stared up at him in pure adoration, carefully mapping out the exact colour and texture of Sherlock’s flushed cheeks and hooded eyes. The voice in his head—the one that had whispered about proper appearances and decency, shame and guilt, all these years—scoffed at how smitten and probably dopey he must look at the moment. Yet, Sherlock’s heavy breathing and John’s own hammering heartbeat easily rendered it inaudible. For once, it couldn’t make him give a fuck.

John captured Sherlock’s lips with his own again, letting his tongue slip avidly into his mouth. He wouldn’t stop kissing him before he had discovered every inch of it—possibly not even then. He let his hands roam over Sherlock’s back and through his hair, revelling in the feeling of finally— _finally_ —being able to touch him like this, to smell him, taste him. John had kissed a not exactly small number of people in the course of his life but nothing had ever resembled this unconditional and blatant desire Sherlock equally evoked and displayed. Disregarding any rational thought, John plunged into the ocean of new sensations, submerging himself completely, letting the current of Sherlock’s kisses sweep him away and pool somewhere beneath his navel in simmering waves. After a minute, they both reluctantly came up for air again. Sherlock had been right all along: Breathing was boring.

Giving his lungs time to recover, John shifted his focus to Sherlock’s chin and neck, trailing hot open-mouthed kisses down to his collarbone. Long, slender fingers fisted in the fabric of John’s button-down in a desperate attempt to pull him closer. Sherlock’s head fell back, exposing even more creamy white flesh for John to attend to, and small sounds escaped his chest again, somewhere between a sob, a moan, and a gasp. At the noise, John’s already rock-hard cock, pressing against Sherlock’s arse, gave an almost painful twitch, rebelling against the layers of fabric constricting it, a wild famished animal rattling at its cage. With a groan in response, John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s pale skin in ferocious urgency, too lightly to draw blood but certainly with enough force to leave a mark. Indulging in the taste and the string of whimpers that vibrated in the throat right beneath his mouth, John replaced his bite with hungry suction as if he could transfuse a fraction of Sherlock’s being into his own.

“God, John,” Sherlock’s pained voice cut through the haze of savage lust and made John release his flesh in sudden clarity. Shocked by his own loss of control, he stared at Sherlock’s neck. A bright purple bruise emblazoned the snowy skin, framed by the imprints of his teeth. What kind of randy teenage-nonsense was he doing here? He was usually a very considerate lover; enjoying himself but in a disciplined, measured way, more intent on pleasing his lovers than himself. These carnal instincts had been a part of him, well-guarded and never fully explored, but nothing had ever kicked them into such a high gear as the detective trembling under his touch. How could he let them take over like this, especially with a partner as inexperienced and vulnerable as Sherlock? Why did he always have to hurt him? Shame prickled in John’s veins as he watched Sherlock bring up one hand to his neck, brushing over the sore spot with an incredulous look.

“I’m so sorry, love, I’ll be more careful,” he promised and soothingly rubbed the other man’s shoulders. They locked eyes and, to John’s relief, a smirk spread over Sherlock’s face.

“Don’t you dare, John Watson.” He bent down to kiss John, playfully biting his lower lip, before his deep breathy voice added: “That was the most exhilarating sensation I’ve ever experienced.”

“Is that so?” John teased back, the beast in him already clawing its way back to the surface. He brushed his lips along those ridiculously sharp cheekbones and began to nibble on Sherlock’s earlobe. The little pressure his teeth applied on the sensitive flesh sent the man in his arms quivering. John couldn’t help but grin as another series of inarticulate sounds sprang from Sherlock’s lips and he grabbed John’s back to press them closer together. On his stomach, John could feel the distinct outline of another cock, just as hard as his own. His insides were charged with a new, almost feverish heat as Sherlock’s hips spasmed against his body in a reckless search for friction.

Grabbing Sherlock by his thighs—well, maybe his arse—for leverage, John spun them both around in a swift, almost effortless motion until Sherlock lay on his back, head landing on the sofa’s armrest, and John half-knelt between his readily spread legs. The sight made John wet his lips in nothing short of ravenous appetite. The way Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed a bright crimson by now, his chest heaving in such violent motion that the already strained buttons of his shirt were seconds from giving way—nothing and no one had ever looked this delicious. Sherlock gawked up at him with surprised admiration for a second before John dove down to him, greedily extracting a few kisses, before positioning himself flush with Sherlock’s body and grinding his hips in a slow wave that made Sherlock cry out in a guttural moan. John half-heartedly tried to stop and shush him—Mrs. Hudson was probably still awake—but firm fingers were already wrapped around his arse cheeks and coaxed a steady rhythm out of him. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck again, muffling his own groans by working his tongue and teeth against the exquisitely responsive skin.

He could feel Sherlock convulse beneath him, his body arching to meet John’s. The noises he made resembled nothing John had ever heard before—deep and desperate but oddly musical. Every note that escaped those plush lips resounded somewhere in John’s core, sending shiver upon shiver down his spine and straight to his cock. _This voice, this bloody beautiful voice._

He propped himself back up on one arm to lock his lips on Sherlock’s again. John needed to shut him up before these obscene and oh so ambrosial moans made him lose every last bit of authority over his limbs. Between kisses, Sherlock’s movements accelerated further, his body shaking in untameable jerks, until he finally flung his eyes open, grasped John’s shoulder with one hand and forced out fragments, gasping for air: “John, I— I need— I want—”

“What, my sweetest? What do you want to do?”

John steadied their bodies and Sherlock let out another shaky breath: “Anything, with you, John. Everything, with you.”

The determination in his voice sent another surge of heat through John’s veins until all his hair stood on ends in longing—not for the rest of the night, but the rest of his life. They had each other now. And they had weeks and months and years, a lifetime together.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you,” he said, concern easily winning over his own arousal. Sherlock’s well-being was all that counted; Even the beast agitatedly prowling in his lower regions agreed to that.

“I’m beginning to feel like a broken record: Once again, John: I’ve waited years for this.”

“And what are a couple more days or weeks in relation to that?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” Sherlock looked at him with a distinctly hurt expression that made John’s stomach clench. He brought his other hand up to caress Sherlock’s cheek, softening his voice into a soothing purr.

“I’m just saying, it’s your first time. That is a huge deal. And we’re both a little tipsy.”

“Don’t you want to do this?” Sherlock asked, now rather fearfully than hurt.

“I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted,” John tried to intercept his destructive thoughts. “Look at me: I’m dangerously close to just grabbing and devouring you on the spot, whether you like it or not.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled mischievously at his words, so John hurried to add: “I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. We can take things slow. We’ve got time now. It’s my first time with a man, too. I’m as much at a loss as you are. Don’t you think it best if we just take it one step at a time?”

“I think,” Sherlock said in that impossibly rich baritone and began to trail his fingers down John’s side in tantalizingly light brushes that made John swallow hard, “that I want you to take me to our bedroom. I think I want you to take my clothes off and yours as well. I think I want to kiss every last inch of your body. And I think I want you to make love to me, John Watson.”

John let his gaze drop to Sherlock’s lips where a lascivious grin was spreading, fighting his inner predatory nature—in vain. He rose from the sofa, pulling Sherlock into a seated position. The telling bulge in his jeans levelled with Sherlock’s face, he said: “Well, then.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, turned on his heels and headed for the bedroom. He was half-way down the hallway, heartbeat hammering in betrayal of his own cockiness, when he heard quiet and somewhat shaky steps follow him.

John used his head start to draw the curtains closed and turn one of the bedside lamps on. In its dim light, painting a golden halo on the sheets, the bed looked undoubtedly inviting. Still, John felt his nerves flutter like a flock of doves being flushed by a hawk. Forcing deep breaths into his reluctant lungs, he untied his shoes and slipped out of them, together with his socks. Those were the most cumbersome items to remove and he didn’t need to increase the risk of making a fool out of himself any further. God, he had never been this bloody nervous. He hadn’t allowed himself to even fantasize about being with Sherlock like this—though his brain wasn’t as easily subdued when he was asleep. But waking up from confusing dreams and then maybe having a shameful wank to release his almost painful erection (thinking about anything but Sherlock, of course) was one thing. Following through with the delightful images his subconsciousness served him—That was at least as terrifying as solitarily crossing hostile lines, armed with nothing but a plastic spoon.

The steps behind him stopped at the door and John turned around. The small grin that spread on his lips as he beheld Sherlock’s bare feet soon melted into another smitten smile as his gaze travelled upwards: Sherlock looked positively angelic with his mussed hair and his cheekbones sharp like two Damascene blades. How could someone not want to touch this heavenly creature in every way possible? In the crepuscule, John found his courage, closed the space between them and welcomed him with a passionate kiss. Sherlock sank readily into him, gladly accepting his guidance. John steered him to the bed until the back of Sherlock’s knees met the edge, forcing him to sit.

Standing in front of him, John slowly undressed, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s stunning features to keep his spirits up. As his button-down, followed by the vest underneath, landed on the floor, Sherlock reached out his hands in an almost awe-stricken movement as if he was about to touch an ancient piece of art that might crumble beneath his fingers. John let him roam his fingers over his stomach and up to the gnarled skin where the bullet had been dug from his shoulder, trying his best to keep his insecurities at bay. He needed to be brave for the both of them if he wanted this to work. Shuffling out of his jeans, he pulled Sherlock back to his feet.

“You’re not done yet,” came his disappointed voice and his lips pursed into a pout that John quickly kissed away.

“Your turn.”

After struggling with the buttons for a minute, John carefully peeled the shirt from his shoulders and let it, too, drop to the floor. Easing Sherlock’s nerves with a few tender kisses, he brought their bare chests closer until skin melted into skin and their body warmth amalgamated. Letting his hand trail down Sherlock’s spine to relax him before unbuttoning his trousers next, both suddenly froze as John’s fingertips ran over ridges and bumps on their otherwise smooth path.

“Sherlock, what—?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Before Sherlock could protest, John turned him around, exposing his back to the light. The sight made his heartbeat stumble: A wild clutter of scars expanded over Sherlock’s skin, an abstract painting of distorted flesh and warped skin. John scanned the damage with expertly glances; These cuts, deep and overlapping, had to have been inflicted over hours or even days, given and reopened by precise violence until the skin hang positively in tatters. How come he had never seen them before?

“When did that happen?”

“While dismantling Moriarty’s network,” Sherlock said, his voice restrained. “I got captured on my last mission, in Serbia. I wasn’t willing to cooperate, so they… tried to convince me otherwise.”

“They tortured you.”

“Mycroft let a Doctor take care of it the next day when I was back in London but the tissue was too damaged.”

John had realized—after Sherlock’s outburst last night—that he had wrongly dismissed the perils and pains the destruction of Moriarty’s heritage had entailed. But to what extent Sherlock had suffered in those two years had still been hard to grasp in sight of all the grief-laden months he had endured himself. Only now, as he let his fingers feather-lightly trace the spiderweb of misery spread out over Sherlock’s back, he truly understood.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Back then, I mean. I could’ve tended to you. I would’ve—” _seen that you loved me._

“You were rather busy with getting engaged and pummelling me in several restaurants if I recall correctly. Didn’t feel like the right time.”

“Do you mean— you had these when I knocked you to the ground?” John’s voice faded to a terrified whisper. Another guilt added to his tab.

Sherlock didn’t answer and stayed perfectly still as John let his fingers roam over his abused skin.

“I—,” he began, struggling for words to hold the ginormous amount of remorse swashing against the insides of his ribcage.

“I know, I know. They’re hideous.”

John raised his eyes and hands to Sherlock’s face, forcing him to acknowledge the complete absurdity of his utterance: “No. Don’t you dare say that. They’re a part of you and nothing about you could ever be anything short of perfect.”

Sherlock returned his gaze reluctantly. In this moment, John made a silent vow: Every scar, every bruise that Sherlock had sustained because of him he would paint over with kisses and love marks—tenfold. He would not rest until Sherlock’s skin bore not only evidence of the sacrifices he had made but of the love he had found in return. Until his heart, soul, and body were covered with tokens of John’s fidelity and devotion shining so brightly that he wouldn’t notice the damaged parts anymore.

“I love you.” John raised up on his toes and caught Sherlock’s lips in a slow kiss, drawing out his doubts, wringing the insecurity from him with each flick of his tongue. Slowly, the tension drained from his body only to be replaced by a renewed symphony of needy moans and heavy breathing.

Once Sherlock was drenched in anticipation again, John worked his belt off and assisted him with stepping out of his expensive trousers, unable to wait for a second longer. The black pants that clad his impressive erection were probably worth half of John’s monthly grocery budget. A wet blotch stained the fabric and John felt his mouth water unexpectantly. In a graceless but at least quick movement, he stripped off his own pants before obtaining Sherlock’s approval to bare him as well, fingers driven by impatience and panic alike.

At last, he beheld Sherlock’s body in all its glory: lean, taut muscles under ivory skin, slender but athletic limbs, and a fully erect cock framed by an accurately trimmed nest of black hair. John couldn’t suppress the gasp that caught in his chest at the sight. Without even realizing it, he pulled Sherlock back into a tight embrace, the contact finally no longer adulterated by clothes, and covered every bit of skin he could reach with rather sloppy kisses, breaking contact to purr: “God, look at you, you’re… stunning. Gorgeous. So beautiful.”

Sherlock, who had seemingly been too lost in the feeling of John’s naked form against his own to process anything else, suddenly flinched under his touch. John retreated as fast as if he had burned his fingers on the skin underneath, searching for Sherlock’s eyes in another surge of painful clarity. _You bloody moron._ What was it about this man that made him lose control like that?

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just want to touch you so badly and then I forget all common sense. Did I hurt you?”

“No, no. It’s just…,” Sherlock said, his voice again oddly restrained. “Alex always used to tell me things like that. And later, other people did, too. They just never actually meant them. The words are just somehow… tainted now. I know it’s silly, they are just words after all and I’ve been called far worse but—” He shrugged. His sad little smile was wiped away by John’s tender thumb. Memories of their first days together sprang from the treasure chest in John’s mind: Sherlock—captivating, extraordinary, but oh so insecure when met with benevolence—who had a hard time processing John’s genuine compliments about his clearly fascinating mental capabilities. The world had spoiled his trust in praise, in kindness, in people caring about him. And John finally understood why Sherlock’s body was mere transport to him, a mean to an end—to carry his brain, to chase criminals, to manipulate people if necessary. For him, there was nothing sacred, nothing loveable about it. How could it be after people had been lying about its worth for all these years?

“I get it,” John said, gently brushing the dark curls back from Sherlock’s eyes. “And I don’t need words to tell you what I feel for you if they make you uncomfortable.”

He placed a tender kiss on Sherlock’s forehead— _I will protect you_ —, brushed his lips over his temple— _You are brilliant_ —down to his neck— _I desire you_ —, and further down still, spreading soft kisses on every bit of skin he passed: over Sherlock’s chest where a heart proclaimed its existence in a hard rhythm— _You are not alone anymore_ —, his prominent ribs— _I will take care of you_ —, his navel— _You are safe with me_. Sherlock accepted every truth with eyes closed until John reached his groin and planted another series of kisses to take root between the ebony hair covering his most private parts— _I wouldn’t change a thing about you_. Sherlock drew in a harsh breath and John came up to his face again, cupping it with loyal hands. He found the pale irises fogged up with a layer of tears.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, John, why do you keep assuming that?” snivelled Sherlock indignantly.

“Maybe because you keep crying, love.”

“Tears are just the body’s way to release tension when particular hormones skyrocket because the brain needs to remain at equilibrium. The type of hormone is secondary, so the reaction is not more likely linked to negative emotion. In our current situation, it would be best for you to assume that whatever tears I shed are born from my body’s inability to hold as much joy and love as I am feeling right now.”

“That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” John chuckled, only half-joking.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped back, wiping his eyes.

“Make me.”

And Sherlock did. Tackling his mouth with kisses, he steered John to the bed and climbed in after him. A mess of tangled limbs enwrapped in sheets and wild heartbeats, they both resumed their exploration of the newly discovered paradise beneath their fingers—John with nothing but awe and the taste of Sherlock on his tongue. He didn’t dare to say a word. There were better ways to talk, ways that Sherlock understood and believed, their own secret language, a code of touches and kisses and gazes.

_You are magnificent – I adore you – You feel so good – I have never desired somebody as much as you – I will never let go of you again – Stay with me forever – I won’t let get anyone or anything between us – You are all I could ever need – I want to pleasure you – I am all yours – Let me take care of you – I need you – I love you – I love you – I love you – I love you…_

His own cock minutes away from simply bursting, John pushed Sherlock to his back and began to make his way downward, leaving bite marks and purple spots wherever he pleased. Sherlock squirmed beneath him, his melodious moans closer to whining now. He couldn’t take the waiting much longer and John, for once, was determined to not be cruel. He was already reaching for his bedside table when the sobering memory hit his endorphin-drenched brain and a sigh escaped against Sherlock’s navel. How could he have forgotten about that?

“What?” the other asked impatiently as John stopped his caressing.

“You don’t have to happen anything around, do you? Lube, Condoms?”

“Condoms? I know your blood is massively supplying another organ than your brain right now but, as a doctor, you should still know that there is no way you can get me pregnant,” Sherlock panted.

A chuckle broke John’s lips and he gave him a half-annoyed look. “You know exactly why we need them. I haven’t been tested for a while. What about you?”

“Tested?”

John rolled them to their sides and playfully slapped one of those exceptionally well-shaped arse cheeks. “For HIV, Sherlock. Whose brain isn’t adequately supplied now?”

“Oh. I thought I made it quite clear that I am still… completely inexperienced in these matters.”

“You are also an ex-drug addict, love. We shouldn’t risk anything in the heat of the moment.”

John could mark the exact second in which his own disillusion reached Sherlock. “You’re right,” he said, voice significantly deflating. “Why don’t you have all that stuff? You are the _sexpert_ here, after all.”

Another chuckle broke loose in John’s throat at the portmanteau though he felt more like crying in frustration. He was fairly sure that Sherlock had found that word in some kind of magazine—and not the scientific kind he usually subscribed to. That was adorable.

“I threw everything out when I moved back in with you. I didn’t exactly want to store stuff like that in our shared bedroom. Could’ve made things awkward.”

“True. That would have been one embarrassing conversation,” Sherlock admitted, raising his eyebrows.

John let himself drop to his back and ran a hand through his hair, trying to detain his arousal. This was… shit, to say the least. After the rocky road they had already travelled to get here, such a trivial problem should be the last thing to thwart them. It just wasn’t fair. Or maybe something was wrong. And this wasn’t meant to be.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock’s slender index finger began to cut intricate patterns through John’s chest hair and the thoughtful silence between them. “Well,” he finally said, dragging out the sound suggestively, “we could do other… stuff, right?”

At once, John was up again, caging Sherlock with his arms, both grinning, somewhat relieved. “You are a dangerous man, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I didn't want the boys (or you) to get blue balls so the remaining events of the night are only one click away ;)


	19. Sherlock's Chapter: Burn the Heart Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is one, the match is struck, and fire meets gasoline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's left to say? Smut ahead! :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Sia, Fire Meet Gasoline](https://youtu.be/fNdeLSKSZ1M)

# Sherlock’s Chapter: Burn the Heart Out

_It's dangerous_  
_To fall in love, but I_  
_Wanna burn with you tonight._  
_Hurt me._  
_There's two of us._  
_We're certain with desire._  
_The pleasure's pain and fire._  
_Burn me._

 

Sia, Fire Meet Gasoline.

 

Sherlock let his head fall back upon the pillow as John climbed half on top of him and began to torture him with little bites and bruises again—always on the verge of hurting but not quite there. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp and dug his nails into John’s backside, evoking an equal sound of pained pleasure. All his nerves were alight with the feeling of John’s fingers, John’s lips, John’s cock against his thigh.

_John. John. John._

Often enough, he had tried to envision what it would feel like to be touched like this by the doctor’s experienced hands. Hours upon hours, Sherlock had spent in his mind palace, on the large bed in the nook of John’s room, focusing all his mental energy on evoking some kind of fantasy: a delicate kiss, a loving embrace, any kind of physical contact that might by any chance aid in the resolution of the agonizing sexual tension inside of him. But it was never enough.

Although the version of John waiting for him on the silken sheets was entirely governed by Sherlock’s imagination, he had a way of defying this special purpose. The flinders of real sensations—John’s hand on his arm, his scent, his voice—that Sherlock collected and tried to assemble into a functioning illusion kept falling apart as soon as he let go, no matter how hard he concentrated. There were just too many blank spaces in between, missing data, unknown details—and no way to fill them. Until now.

Sherlock’s brain, however, had shut off somewhere along the way, overwhelmed by the myriad of impressions. Its ever-present flow of deductions, observations, calculations had been reduced to a low humming, barely more than white noise. Sherlock gripped it tightly at the edges and pulled it back into focus. He couldn’t just let this experience wash over him in half-delirium. He needed to take all of it in, consciously, attentively, had to soak up every last bit of critical information and lock it away in his skull forever. He needed to add the images of John’s golden skin to the walls of his mind palace, needed to store the sound of his moans, the feeling of his lips, his musky scent engulfing him.

John stopped. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, why?”

“You seem a little distracted.”

“Just… collecting data. A fascinating multiplicity of data.”

“Okay,” John stretched the word, a little concerned. “Why do you need data?”

Sherlock painted the words on his jaw with light kisses: “I don’t want to forget any of this. Ever. I need to remember how you respond to me, what you feel like.”

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll remind you what I feel like, every single day,” John said and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, grinding his hips into Sherlock, eliciting another gasp. “Tell me if you want to slow down.”

“I really don’t.”

“Okay, good. Then, what _other stuff_ did you have in mind?”

Sherlock swallowed hard and gave John a clueless or maybe panicked look, no words coming to his aid. Yes, what exactly did he have in mind?

After a beat, John began stroking his side, voice once again lowered to that soft, soothing purr: “We could both… take care of it ourselves, maybe just watch each other?”

At his suggestion, Sherlock felt his eyebrows contort into an even more petrified expression. He probably looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car approaching at a tearing pace.

“No watching?” John instantly asked, his hand continuing to console Sherlock’s burning skin.

“The watching’s fine. Great, really,” he finally rasped out. “I just don’t… usually…” He cocked his head suggestively, conveying the last part of the sentence.

“Ever?”

Sherlock shook his head, reluctantly meeting John’s incredulous eyes and preparing himself for the inevitable rejection or mockery that had to follow such a confession. A grown man who didn’t masturbate, who didn’t even know how to please himself, let alone someone else? How would anyone want to be with someone as inexperienced as this?

“Oh, ok.” John simply smiled and risked a glance at Sherlock’s throbbing erection next to his own. “Well, if you want me to… I could try to take care of you.”

“Would you?” Sherlock asked, sounding a little too eager and relieved for his own taste. But John seemed pleased by his enthusiasm and let his hand trail down between their bodies.

“Just relax.”

Sherlock shuddered as John’s fingers wrapped around both of their cocks, pressing them together and beginning to pump in a slow rhythm. His eyes involuntarily fell closed for a moment, as he reveled in the alleviative friction. Finally, _finally_ , John was touching him in a way he had always longed for and Sherlock couldn’t help but thrust into his fist, letting his heart rule his head at last. His brain couldn’t have come up with something so spectacularly good in a million years; What use was his genius intellect in a situation like this? This was just like music, like dancing. He needed to let his body take control, to follow the rhythm of John’s panting, the melody of his kisses. He needed to let go.

John’s steady pumps were heavenly relief—just a little too dry. John worked his thumb to spread the precum leaking from both their tips but that didn’t quite do the trick. As Sherlock was about to open his mouth to say something, John gave a growl at the insufficient lubrication and loosened his grip. Following a weird intuition tingling in his stomach, Sherlock caught his fingers in his own and brought them up to his face. His eyes locked on John’s, making sure to capture even the most miniscule of reactions, he slowly let his middle and index finger brush over his lips before inserting them into his mouth. John’s eyes went wide, as he unassertively applied suction. Sherlock drew his tongue over his skin so thoroughly that he would be able to replicate the pattern of John’s fingerprints by heart, cataloguing the taste of their joint fluids lingering on them, before releasing John’s hand, now liberally covered in his saliva. A shaky breath of air vaguely resembling Sherlock’s name escaped John’s chest but, apart from that, he stayed perfectly still for an unsettling amount of time.

“Not good?”

An amazed smile broke John’s lips before his tongue slipped out to wet them. “Very good. Very, very good, Sherlock. I told you: You are a natural.”

John didn’t break eye contact as he reapplied his grasp and worked their now slick lengths in a gradually accelerating rhythm.

At the renewed tightness around his cock, Sherlock couldn’t stop the muffled string of curses bubbling out of him. This was an unknown amount of pleasure. Even through the haze of endorphins saturating his bloodstream, he noticed John’s reaction to the sounds that escaped him: all hair on his body stood on ends. Sherlock had often observed that John seemed exceptionally perceptive to his voice. Somewhere deep beneath the rising tide of arousal, his brain offered bits of statistics he had gathered over the years ( _John wets his lips 42 % more often, decreases distance to 29 % below average at certain frequency_ ) and demanded implementation of this knowledge.

“Oh God, John, yes,” he moaned in a dark, husky voice, being rewarded by another shiver that visibly made its way down the other man’s spine. Maybe he really was a natural, Sherlock pondered, at least when it came to arousing John, _his_ John.

_John. John. John._

“Tell me how it feels, darling,” he demanded in his captain’s voice, increasing the pressure around their considerable girth as much as his single hand allowed.

It was hard to resist that military authority. “Unbelievably, impossibly good,” Sherlock responded, eager to fulfil his wishes and put this newly-discovered way to stimulate his lover to the test some more. “I have never experienced such pleasure before. You have no idea how long I have dreamed of this.”

“You have?” John’s voice was nothing more than a hungry panting.

“For years. To kiss you, to touch you, to suck that gorgeous cock of yours.”

Sherlock felt said cock twitch against his own as John murmured against his neck: “Oh God.” His words sent another surge of heat through Sherlock’s body. Words and wishes, swirling on it like sailing boats on a torrential river, poured out of his mouth.

“I meant what I said. I want to lick and kiss and pleasure every inch of you, John. I want to swallow as much of you as I can, take you all in.”

“Fuck, Sherlock.”

“Yes, that’s the plan, Captain,” Sherlock continued, almost giddy with arousal. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to fuck me. I won’t be satisfied until you bury that gigantic cock inside of me. I won’t let you sleep until you’ve wrecked me with hard deep thrusts. I can tell you right now that I’ll be insatiable. You’ll have to fuck me and fuck me and—"

John sank his teeth into his skin again and added a twist of his hand at the top, choking Sherlock off into a guttural moan. Little white lights danced past his vision. And right there, right then, he understood: There had never been any reason for concern or fear that night at the pool. It had been empty threats, void of any real danger: Jim Moriarty would never have been able to burn the heart out of him. It was John, always John, who would dismantle him, strip him down to his core, and burn him with the fire that only he could light in his veins.

The blood pooling in his groin had already risen to almost unbearable temperatures. His whole body was smoldering, torrid, parched by the sun that was John. He was seconds away from igniting, combusting under John’s skilled strokes. The passion of their kisses, interrupted by positively filthy noises, only added fuel to the raging inferno beneath Sherlock’s skin. Every grip of John’s hand, every graze of his teeth—placed with surgical precision—poured another gallon of gasoline into his bloodstream.

He couldn’t take it anymore and, yet, didn’t want it to ever end. John’s eyes, fixed on him with an animalistic voluptuousness, were promises of cool waters, of refreshment and cleansing, but every torched fibre of Sherlock’s body rebelled against the prospect of being extinguished. Because once he allowed John to end the torture, there would be nothing left but ashes. Desperately, Sherlock clung to John’s body, his fingers pleading, begging for mercy and more, more, more all at once.

“Let go, love. I got you.” John’s steady fingers, sprawled on his back, began to spasm, the tips digging into some muscle—Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to recall the name if his life depended on it. He pressed their foreheads together, searching John’s eyes in mortal fear. He had no choice but to trust him, to follow him wherever he might lead. Something warm and sticky landed on their joint skin before one final moan soaring from John’s throat hurled him right over the edge, ablaze like a falling star.

And just like that, Sherlock Holmes ceased to exist. He was annihilated, obliterated, torn apart by the sheer force of his own emotion. A blindingly incandescent wave of bliss rushed through him, explosive and deadly, disintegrating the molecular bonds of his being. It took only a second to burst his body into his elements, splattering them all over the bedroom in bits of smoke and dust. His atoms weren’t his own anymore, maybe never had been; borrowed only from some creational force, for a mere blink of an eye, and now Sherlock had to give them back, had to pay the price for such devastating happiness life had finally offered him.

All that was left was his consciousness—an unbound glowing core, floating over the sweat-soaked sheets, barely more than a whisper, neither tangible nor completely ethereal. Soon, it, too, would fade away, become one with the universe—a particle of no significance against the vastness of existence itself. If Sherlock’s mind was to melt back into the everlasting but ever-changing All, to welcome death and whatever came next, he would do it with just one word, one thought, one truth carried with him to the other side:

_John. John. John._

A tear escaped his non-existent eyes at the thought of having to leave him behind, of entering the next stage of reality without him. They belonged together, always had, always would. And they surely would find each other in any other world to come. Still, Sherlock would have given anything for one more look into those dark-blue eyes, one more kiss from those lips, one more laughter shared in perfect understanding. But with his body shattered and his consciousness soaring slowly higher and higher towards the night sky it could only be goodbye now. Everything went dark.

…

But then there was a dim light and John, piecing Sherlock’s physical form back together with soft kisses and reliable strokes, stacking cell upon cell. Into each layer, he wove another vow, another reminder of his eternal devotion, until Sherlock returned into a new body, given and altered by the touch of the man he loved. Because this wasn’t death after all—it was rebirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernova
> 
> Phew, my first smutty scene is finally done and out in the open. What a weird feeling! :D I hope it's not too bad.
> 
> Our journey is drawing to a close. One more chapter full of fluff lies ahead! :) And the sequel is already in the making if you are interested!


	20. John's Chapter: The First Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up from pleasant dreams. But something is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> This. Is. It. The last chapter. I can't believe that I wrote more than 65.000 words in only a few months. Thank you all for sticking with me throughout this journey. Enjoy the finale :)
> 
> This chapter's song is:  
> [Simply Red, The Air That I Breath](https://youtu.be/hfbAKZTM3-A?t=35)
> 
> (Chose this version because my Mom loves Simply Red and I listened to it so much as a kid <3 :)

# John’s Chapter: The First Morning

_Sometimes all I need is the air that I breath_

_And to love you._

Simply Red, The Air That I Breath.

 

He woke with a start, knowing that the bed beside him was empty before even opening his eyes. Milky thorns of sunlight crept through the curtains, illuminating sleep- and sex-muddled sheets but just one body underneath them. John rubbed his eyes. When opening them again, nothing about the room had changed. The second pillow next to him remained vacant.

Still drowsy, he rolled onto his back. Something had shifted, he could sense it. The world around him seemed stuck in some kind of surreal bubble, existing outside of the current of time, in a parallel universe filled with strange melodies and scents. Fragments of sensations, images, noises lurked about in the fuzzy edges of his mind, reflecting the morning light in every direction like a broken mirror.

Had last night been just another one of the cruel fantasies his brain routinely fabricated for him? Or maybe he had hit his head, resulting in some kind of encephalic trauma and subsequent hallucinations or falsified memories?

John shook his head and the last bit of sleep fell off. No, their fight had been real, their reconciliation had been real, their dinner, their first kiss, their first… John lifted the blanket to confirm. Yep, he was still naked. Last night had happened. He ran a hand through his hair, recalling blissful moments of passionate kisses and heated hands roaming over skin, bedewed with sweat.

A grin stole onto his lips. It had happened. It was true. They had taken the leap.

But then, where was Sherlock? After a frankly magnificent orgasm, John had barely managed to clean them both up before falling into a deep slumber with Sherlock in his arms. The exhausted and for once tongue-tied genius had clung to him like a drowning man to a lifesaver, his slender body seeking contact to as much of John’s as he could. Without Sherlock’s comforting heat, wrapped around him in a tangled mess of limbs, the chill of the bedroom slowly took hold of John. He shivered.

His sheet tightly draped over his shoulders, he rose and peeked into the adjoining bathroom: no Sherlock. He obviously hadn’t just got up to take a shower or use the loo. The thought made John’s throat close up a little in unexpected uneasiness. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what a first morning was supposed to be like; eyes and limbs comfortably heavy with the exhaustion of last night, shy greetings murmured into glowing skin, embraces renewed and tightened until a new wave of less desperate but nonetheless intoxicating passion overtook both. But waking up alone? That left a bitter taste in John’s mouth.

He let his eyes wander over the empty bedroom. Last night’s discarded clothes still lay on the floor in little piles of fabric, evidence for the borders they had crossed. Had this been a mistake?

Now that he came to think of it, they hadn’t talked about the implications of their first time at all. Had John even asked Sherlock if he was alright afterward? He couldn’t remember. They both had been a sweat-soaked, cum-covered mess, barely able to find their way to the bathroom through the thick, endorphin-induced fog. In hindsight, Sherlock had been awfully quiet. That should have tipped John off, shouldn’t it? Since when was Sherlock Holmes ever at a loss for words? John should have seen that something was wrong. A familiar mixture of guilt, shame, and worry began to simmer in his guts.

Had Sherlock woken up in the middle of the night, filled with new nightmares starring a savage John taking advantage of him, stalking him like prey until Sherlock had no choice but to succumb? Or had he beheld John in the harsh, revealing daylight, his body aging, his wrinkles a little deeper, his hair a little greyer, and been disgusted by the first man he had allowed access to the sanctum of his body? Did he regret taking this step, now that the effects of the wine had worn off?

Oh God, they should’ve waited, taken things slowly, just cuddled or snogged for a start. This was all new to Sherlock. And it had been his bloody first time. Of course, he would take fright and escape as soon as he could, after all he had been through. Or maybe John had said or done something in his sleep, something terrible? Had he hurt him, again?

“Fuck.”

John cursed himself—and especially the horny beast inside of him that had overruled his conscience at the sight of Sherlock’s gorgeous body—as he hastily pulled the dresser open and slipped into a pair of pants and a random t-shirt. He needed to find Sherlock and beg him for forgiveness. He had to apologize and pray that he hadn’t ruined their relationship before it had even started. How could he live on with this glimpse of what could have grown between them without ever getting it back?

He was rummaging the drawers for a pair of trousers when his panicking brain finally registered the information billowing at the outskirts of his consciousness: There was faint music seeping through the bedroom door. He halted abruptly, staying perfectly still and listening for a few seconds, all his nerves on edge. His ears didn’t betray him. A melody was playing, coming from the sitting room, if he wasn’t mistaking. John even knew that song. With his heart barely beating, he strode across the bedroom and opened the door.

A voice came floating down the hallway to John’s incredulous ears, the words carried on it familiar but glazed with a new significance: “ _If I could make a wish I think I’d pass. Can’t think of anything I need_.” He would recognize that voice everywhere, having heard it even for the two years its owner had been presumed dead.

He followed the enchanting sound of Sherlock’s silky baritone into the kitchen and beheld a wondrous scene: There he was, in nothing but a pair of striped pyjama bottoms, hanging dangerously low on his narrow hips, the scars on his bare back eerily beautiful in the glistening morning sun. He was swaying a little to the music soaring from the docking station on the desk and, if John were to trust his eyes, he was pouring something looking—and smelling—distinctly like batter into a frying pan where it sizzled with a sound that made John’s mouth water. As Sherlock moved to the side, John’s suspicions were confirmed by the tower of deliciously golden pancakes already stacked on a plate next to the stove. Completely immersed in the task at hand, flipping the pancake with a spatula, Sherlock kept singing along to the song from John’s iPod in heart-warming sincerity: “ _No cigarettes, no sleep—"_

John carefully approached him, bare feet tapping on the kitchen floor, and wrapped his arms around his naked waist, believing for a second that his hands would just grasp thin air, a mirage. Sherlock startled a little as John’s fingers reached him but then leaned into the touch and slowly turned in his grasp until their bodies were aligned in a tight hug.

“— _no light, no sound_ —”

A smile bright enough to put the sun watching through the window to shame spread on Sherlock’s face. At the sight, John’s chest unclenched a little, warmed and soothed by the unmitigated joy this man kindled in him. God, how he loved him.

_“—nothing to eat, no books to read_.”

Letting his gaze stray downward, he admired the traces he had left on Sherlock’s skin last night, decorating him with his lips, adorning his body with multicoloured tokens of his desire. His worries not yet entirely vanished, John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes again, searching for signs of distress. This morning, they were of the soft green-blue colour of calm Caribbean shores, where warm waters washed little pearlescent seashells onto white beaches. John cocked his head, his brows furrowed in a silent question, needing to be sure that Sherlock was okay.

As if responding to his thoughts, Sherlock kept singing, a knowing smile on his tasty lips: “ _Making love with you has left me peaceful warm inside. What more could I ask? There’s nothing left to be desired_.”

John listened in awe to this declaration of Sherlock’s feelings, tracking every movement of that sinfully sexy mouth. In some dingy corner of his mind, a puzzle of broken, booze-smudged images was pieced together; Sherlock had sung to him before like this, with the same genuineness, he remembered now: on New Year’s Eve, in that club, right on the dancefloor. John had lost control in the dancing masses and shown his feelings in the least captious way he could find—by singing to Sherlock, by laying all suppressed desires into the lyrics. And Sherlock had joined him, recognizing and mirroring the truthfulness of the words. How could John have forgotten a moment like this? How could he have been so dismissive? There had been so many confessions, so many _I love you_ s before the words had ever been uttered. John simply had been blind. But he saw now, he saw them all.

Sherlock must have recognized the glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He began to sway in John’s embrace, to move them to the music. John brought one of his hands up over his purfled chest and entwined their fingers, while the other remained around Sherlock’s waist, pressing their bodies close together. This was the way it should be. They should’ve been dancing like this all along. John joined Sherlock in the chorus, enticing him to smile even brighter:

“ _Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breath and to love you. All I need is the air that I breath and to love you—”_

Sherlock bent down and connected their lips in a slow, innocent kiss. Letting his forehead rest on John’s, he breathed the last part of the refrain: “ _You’re all I want_.”

John’s lungs filled with the certainty that he had never been loved quite like this before: An almost childish naiveté and abundance shone in Sherlock’s eyes, and, at the same time, not a single delusion clouded their sight. Sherlock knew him—all his flaws, his fears, his shortcomings—and he loved him not regardless but _because_ of them. A shiver made its way across John’s scalp. Something that had lain in hibernation for the longest time raised its head towards the first warm rays of the sun. The dawn had won. And spring sometimes began in early January.

“Good morning,” he said, the words never having been so true, and followed Sherlock as he moved them in an intricate order of turns across the cold kitchen floor.

“Good morning, John.”

“I’m glad I’ve found you, honey. I panicked a little when I woke up without you.”

“I see that.”

“How?”

“You’ve put on one of _my_ shirts in your hurry.”

“Oh.” John pulled at the fabric, a little embarrassed to have overstepped like this. He hadn’t even noticed. By now, all of their clothes smelled the same.

“It’s fine. Suits you.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand a little tighter. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I just wanted to surprise you with breakfast, as a thank-you for last night.”

A grin sneaked itself onto John’s lips. “I would’ve shagged you years ago if that gets me pancakes.”

“I’ve cooked and baked for you before but that never got you to shag me,” Sherlock responded accusatorily and spun John around in a little twirl.

“Yeah, because you usually mix some kind of chemicals in my food for experiments.” John stopped their dancing for a second, looking at Sherlock askance. “I do hope that stops now.”

“Promise. Although Viagra-laced waffles would probably make for a fun day, don’t you think?”

A burst of those little intimate chuckles which were so often frowned upon at crime scenes filled the kitchen as Sherlock pulled him close again and let his hips playfully grind against John’s body.

“I think I only now understand what I’ve gotten myself into.”

“Do you want to back out?”

“Back out of the best thing that’s ever happened to me?” John asked, putting on the most offended face he could muster. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”

“My kind of idiot.”

They shared another kiss, giggling against each other’s lips, hands roaming warm and willing skin. Again, Sherlock gave John a little spin and caught him in his arms, bending him back in a mirror of the motion they had practiced all these months ago for his wedding waltz.

“Hey, why am I the one getting twirled around, by the way?” John complained, pinching Sherlock slightly as they continued dancing.

“I think it’s only fair. And corresponding to our respective talents: You’ll get to be in command in the bedroom, hence, I get to lead when we’re dancing,” Sherlock declared in a matter-of-factly tone, betrayed only be the little smirk that played on his lips.

“That sounds fair indeed,” John cooed, running his fingers over the soft skin at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Does that mean that last night met your expectations?”

“Are you kidding? That was absolutely fantastic. I thought how completely knocked out I was afterwards—or the breakfast I’m preparing—would convey that effectively.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to hear it though.”

This time, Sherlock halted their motion. He raised John’s arms to rest around his neck and nudged his nose in an affectionate gesture that made John’s chest clench with an almost painful surge of adoration. “John, you were spectacular. I’ve had an honestly mind-shattering orgasm and I haven’t slept this well since I can’t remember when. Not a single nightmare.”

John gave him a quick, appreciative peck on the lips before resuming their dance, his head now resting on Sherlock’s neck. “I’m glad. I was a little worried, admittedly. And for the record: It was great for me, too. Best night of my life, honestly. Slept like a baby. Which reminds me: I’ll have to pick up Rosie from Mrs Hudson’s.”

“Not to sound like the worst godfather ever but do you have to? I mean, right away?”

“I’m afraid I’ve strained Mrs H’s care long enough already.”

“But if you go downstairs you’ll have to put on more clothes and I would really have things rather go in the opposite direction,” Sherlock murmured against John’s temple and tugged at the tight t-shirt that had already exposed several inches of his lower abdomen and back.

“You really are insatiable, aren’t you?” John chuckled, raising his head to face the taller man again.

“I’ve warned you.”

Sherlock let his lips brush over John’s, slightly nibbling, before sliding his hands under his shirt and capturing his mouth in a proper kiss. John hadn’t had time yet to get used to the reaction Sherlock’s touches evoked in his body—this urgency with which the blood pooled in his groin, the roaring of his heartbeat, the hunger tugging at his insides that could not be satisfied by pancakes. How did this ivory-skinned, honey-scented bastard turn him into such a savage beast?

John buried a hand in dark curls, determined to prevent the end of the kiss by force if must be, and let his tongue slip into Sherlock’s welcoming mouth, being met by the most delicious moan. Raising up onto his toes to bring their bodies flush, John let his other hand glide downwards until his fingers found a marvellously tight butt to grab, barely covered by a thin layer of fabric. Slender fingers worked up and down his own back with swift and artful movements, leaving the skin beneath them burning with want. John pressed his rapidly growing erection into Sherlock, letting out a satisfied growl when he found that the outline of Sherlock’s hard cock was already straining his pyjama bottoms. He would have that for breakfast, right here on the kitchen table until Sherlock would pant and cry and beg for sweet release.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he noticed that a new song had begun but he had a hard time naming it—although it was from his own playlist. But it didn’t really matter now, did it? Not when he was kissing Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant and beautiful man on earth, in the serenity of the early morning, the first morning of many yet to come.

But wasn’t there another sound? Something beeping? Hurried steps on the stairs? A door banging open? Someone shrieking?

“Sherlock, John, everything alright?”

Mrs Hudson’s shrill voice lifted the fog of arousal and brought John back to reality. For a second, the flat around him seemed altered and oddly confusing, like kissing Sherlock had pushed them through a wormhole into an alternate universe—one with a distinctly smoky smell to it.

“I heard the smoke detector and thought—” Mrs Hudson, crossing the living room, halted with a surprised sound.

John and Sherlock stopped in the middle of their embrace and looked at her like two school children caught red-handed eating forbidden sweets. John felt some of his blood return to his cheeks in hot embarrassment. The scenery their landlady was facing right now must look absolutely ridiculous: John in nothing but pants and Sherlock’s t-shirt, Sherlock with bite marks and hickeys all over his bare torso, slow-dancing in the smoke-filled kitchen while their pancakes merrily burned on the stove.

Mrs. Hudson’s face lit up in a knowing and somewhat relieved grin. “Oh, my two idiot boys. Finally! I thought we’d never get here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a wrap!
> 
> Stay tuned for the sequel (if you--like me--aren't ready to leave these two lovebirds alone). I'll post the first chapter as soon as I can :)
> 
> Thank you once again for all of your support and praise! I couldn't have done this without you <3
> 
> If you like, follow me on Tumblr: [anchored-in-high-tide](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anchored-in-high-tide)


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